The Fable of the Bees; Or, Private Vices, Public Benefits

by Bernard Mandeville

PREFACE.

Considering the manifold clamours, that have been raised from several quarters, against the Fable of the Bees, even after I had published the vindication of it, many of my readers will wonder to see me come out with a second part, before I have taken any further notice of what has been said against the first. Whatever is published, I take it for granted, is submitted to the judgment of all the world that see it; but it is very unreasonable, that authors should not be upon the same footing with their critics. The treatment I have received, and the liberties some gentlemen have taken with me, being well known, the public must be convinced before now, that, in point of civility, I owe my adversaries nothing: and if those, who have taken upon them to school and reprimand me, had an undoubted right to censure what they thought fit, without asking my leave, and to say of me what they pleased, I ought to have an equal privilege to examine their censures, and, without consulting them, to judge in my turn, whether they are worth answering or not. The public must be the umpire between us. From the Appendix that has been added to the first part, ever since the third edition, it is manifest, that I have been far from endeavouring to stifle, either the arguments or the invectives that were made against me; and, not to have left the reader uninformed of any thing extant of either sort, I once thought to have taken this opportunity of presenting him with a list of the adversaries that have appeared in print against me: but as they are in nothing so considerable as they are in their numbers, I was afraid it would have looked like ostentation, unless I would have answered them all, which I shall never attempt. The reason, therefore, of my obstinate silence has been all along, that hitherto I have not been accused of any thing that is criminal or immoral, for which every middling capacity could not have framed a very good answer, from some part or other, either of the vindication or the book itself.

However, I have wrote, and had by me near two years, a defence of the Fable of the Bees, in which I have stated and endeavoured to solve all the objections that might reasonably be made against it, as to the doctrine contained in it, and the detriment it might be of to others: for this is the only thing about which I ever had any concern. Being conscious, that I have wrote with no ill design, I should be sorry to lie under the imputation of it: but as to the goodness or badness of the performance itself, the thought was never worth my care; and therefore those critics, that found fault with my bad reasoning, and said of the book, that it is ill wrote, that there is nothing new in it, that it is incoherent stuff, that the language is barbarous, the humour low, and the style mean and pitiful; those critics, I say, are all very welcome to say what they please: In the main, I believe they are in the right; but if they are not, I shall never give myself the trouble to contradict them; for I never think an author more foolishly employed, than when he is vindicating his own abilities. As I wrote it for my diversion, so I had my ends; if those who read it have not had theirs, I am sorry for it, though I think myself not at all answerable for the disappointment. It was not wrote by subscription, nor have I ever warranted, any where, what use or goodness it would be of: on the contrary, in the very preface, I have called it an inconsiderable trifle; and since that, I have publicly owned that it was a rhapsody. If people will buy books without looking into them, or knowing what they are, I cannot see whom they have to blame but themselves, when they do not answer expectations. Besides, it is no new thing for people to dislike books after they have bought them: this will happen sometimes, even when men of considerable figure had given them the strongest assurances, before hand, that they would be pleased with them.

A considerable part of the defence I mentioned, has been seen by several of my friends, who have been in expectation of it for some time. I have stayed neither for types nor paper, and yet I have several reasons, why I do not yet publish it; which, having touched nobody’s money, nor made any promise concerning it, I beg leave to keep to myself. Most of my adversaries, whenever it comes out, will think it soon enough; and nobody suffers by the delay but myself.

Since I was first attacked, it has long been a matter of wonder and perplexity to me to find out, why and how men should conceive, that I had wrote with an intent to debauch the nation, and promote all manner of vice: and it was a great while before I could derive the charge from any thing, but wilful mistake and premeditated malice. But since I have seen, that men could be serious in apprehending the increase of rogues and robberies, from the frequent representations of the Beggar’s Opera, I am persuaded, that there really are such wrongheads in the world, as will fancy vices to be encouraged, when they see them exposed. To the same perverseness of judgment it must have been owing, that some of my adversaries were highly incensed with me, for having owned, in the Vindication, that hitherto I had not been able to conquer my vanity, as well as I could have wished. From their censure it is manifest, that they must have imagined, that to complain of a frailty, was the same as to brag of it. But if these angry gentlemen had been less blinded with passion, or seen with better eyes, they would easily have perceived, unless they were too well pleased with their pride, that to have made the same confession themselves, they wanted nothing but sincerity. Whoever boasts of his vanity, and at the same time shows his arrogance, is unpardonable. But when we hear a man complain of an infirmity, and his want of power entirely to cure it, whilst he suffers no symptoms of it to appear, that we could justly upbraid him with, we are so far from being offended, that we are pleased with the ingenuity, and applaud his candour; and when such an author takes no greater liberties with his readers, than what is usual in the same manner of writing, and owns that to be the result of vanity, which others tell a thousand lies about, his confession is a compliment, and the frankness of it ought not to be looked upon otherwise, than as a civility to the public, a condescension he was not obliged to make. It is not in feeling the passions, or in being affected with the frailties of nature, that vice consists; but in indulging and obeying the call of them, contrary to the dictates of reason. Whoever pays great deference to his readers, respectfully submitting himself to their judgment, and tells them at the same time, that he is entirely destitute of pride; whoever, I say, does this, spoils his compliment whilst he is making of it: for it is no better than bragging, that it costs him nothing. Persons of taste, and the least delicacy, can be but little affected with a man’s modesty, of whom they are sure, that he is wholly void of pride within: the absence of the one makes the virtue of the other cease; at least the merit of it is not greater than that of chastity in an eunuch, or humility in a beggar. What glory would it be to the memory of Cato, that he refused to touch the water that was brought him, if it was not supposed that he was very thirsty when he did it?

The reader will find, that in this second part I have endeavoured to illustrate and explain several things, that were obscure and only hinted at in the first.

Whilst I was forming this design, I found, on the one hand, that, as to myself, the easiest way of executing it, would be by dialogue; but I knew, on the other, that to discuss opinions, and manage controversies, it is counted the most unfair manner of writing. When partial men have a mind to demolish an adversary, and triumph over him with little expence, it has long been a frequent practice to attack him with dialogues, in which the champion, who is to lose the battle, appears at the very beginning of the engagement, to be the victim that is to be sacrificed, and seldom makes a better figure than cocks on Shrove-Tuesday, that receive blows, but return none, and are visibly set up on purpose to be knocked down. That this is to be said against dialogues, is certainly true; but it is as true, that there is no other manner of writing, by which greater reputation has been obtained. Those, who have most excelled all others in it, were the two most famous authors of all antiquity, Plato and Cicero: the one wrote almost all his philosophical works in dialogues, and the other has left us nothing else. It is evident, then, that the fault of those, who have not succeeded in dialogues; was in the management, and not in the manner of writing; and that nothing but the ill use that has been made of it, could ever have brought it into disrepute. The reason why Plato preferred dialogues to any other manner of writing, he said, was, that things thereby might look, as if they were acted, rather than told: the same was afterwards given by Cicero in the same words, rendered into his own language. The greatest objection that in reality lies against it, is the difficulty there is in writing them well. The chief of Plato’s interlocutors was always his master Socrates, who every where maintains his character with great dignity; but it would have been impossible to have made such an extraordinary person speak like himself on so many emergencies, if Plato had not been as great a man as Socrates.

Cicero, who studied nothing more than to imitate Plato, introduced in his dialogues some of the greatest men in Rome, his contemporaries, that were known to be of different opinions, and made them maintain and defend every one his own sentiments, as strenuously, and in as lively a manner, as they could possibly have done themselves; and in reading his dialogues a man may easily imagine himself to be in company with several learned men of different tastes and studies. But to do this, a man must have Cicero’s capacity. Lucian likewise, and several others among the ancients, chose for their speakers, persons of known characters. That this interests and engages the reader more than strange names, is undeniable; but then, when the personages fall short of those characters, it plainly shows, that the author undertook what he was not able to execute. To avoid this inconveniency, most dialogue-writers among the moderns, have made use of fictitious names, which they either invented themselves or borrowed of others. These are, generally speaking, judicious compounds, taken from the Greek, that serve for short characters of the imaginary persons they are given to, denoting either the party they side with, or what it is they love or hate. But of all these happy compounds, there is not one that has appeared equally charming to so many authors of different views and talents, as Philalethes; a plain demonstration of the great regard mankind generally have to truth. There has not been a paper-war of note, these two hundred years, in which both parties, at one time or other, have not made use of this victorious champion; who, which side soever he has fought on, has hitherto, like Dryden’s Almanzor, been conqueror, and constantly carried all before him. But, as by this means the event of the battle must always be known, as soon as the combatants are named, and before a blow is struck; and as all men are not equally peaceable in their dispositions, many readers have complained, that they had not sport enough for their money, and that knowing so much before hand, spoiled all their diversion. This humour having prevailed for some time, authors are grown less solicitous about the names of the personages they introduce. This careless way, seeming to me at least as reasonable as any other, I have followed; and had no other meaning by the names I have given my interlocutors, than to distinguish them, without the least regard to the derivation of words, or any thing relating to the etymology of them: all the care I have taken about them, that I know of, is, that the pronunciation of them should not be harsh, nor the sounds offensive.

But though the names I have chosen are feigned, and the circumstances of the persons fictitious, the characters themselves are real, and as faithfully copied from nature as I have been able to take them. I have known critics find fault with play-wrights for annexing short characters to the names they gave the persons of the drama; alleging, that it is forestalling their pleasure, and that whatever the actors are represented to be, they want no monitor, and are wise enough to find it out themselves. But I could never approve of this censure: there is a satisfaction, I think, in knowing one’s company; and when I am to converse with people for a considerable time, I desire to be well acquainted with them, and the sooner the better. It is for this reason, I thought it proper to give the reader some account of the persons that are to entertain him. As they are supposed to be people of quality, I beg leave, before I come to particulars, to premise some things concerning the beau monde in general; which, though most people perhaps know them every body does not always attend to. Among the fashionable part of mankind throughout Christendom, there are, in all countries, persons, who, though they feel a just abhorrence to atheism and professed infidelity, yet have very little religion, and are scarce half-believers, when their lives come to be looked into, and their sentiments examined. What is chiefly aimed at in a refined education, is to procure as much ease and pleasure upon earth, as that can afford: therefore men are first instructed in all the various arts of rendering their behaviour agreeable to others, with the least disturbance to themselves. Secondly, they are imbued with the knowledge of all the elegant comforts of life, as well as the lessons of human prudence, to avoid pain and trouble, in order to enjoy as much of the world, and with as little opposition, as it is possible. Whilst thus men study their own private interest, in assisting each other to promote and increase the pleasures of life in general, they find by experience, that to compass those ends, every thing ought to be banished from conversation, that can have the least tendency of making others uneasy; and to reproach men with their faults or imperfections, neglects or omissions, or to put them in mind of their duty, are offices that none are allowed to take upon them, but parents or professed masters and tutors; nor even they before company: but to reprove and pretend to teach others, we have no authority over, is ill manners, even in a clergyman out of the pulpit; nor is he there to talk magisterially, or ever to mention things, that are melancholy or dismal, if he should pass for a polite preacher: but whatever we may vouchsafe to hear at church, neither the certainty of a future state, nor the necessity of repentance, nor any thing else relating to the essentials of Christianity, are ever to be talked of when we are out of it, among the beau monde, upon any account whatever. The subject is not diverting: besides, every body is supposed to know those things, and to take care accordingly; nay, it is unmannerly to think otherwise. The decency in fashion being the chief, if not the only, rule, all modish people walk by, not a few of them go to church, and receive the sacrament, from the same principle that obliges them to pay visits to one another, and now and then to make an entertainment. But as the greatest care of the beau monde is to be agreeable, and appear well-bred, so most of them take particular care, and many against their consciences, not to seem burdened with more religion than it is fashionable to have, for fear of being thought to be either hypocrites or bigots.

Virtue, however, is a very fashionable word, and some of the most luxurious are extremely fond of the amiable sound; though they mean nothing by it, but a great veneration for whatever is courtly or sublime, and an equal aversion to every thing that is vulgar or unbecoming. They seem to imagine, that it chiefly consists in a strict compliance to the rules of politeness, and all the laws of honour, that have any regard to the respect that is due to themselves. It is the existence of this virtue, that is often maintained with so much pomp of words, and for the eternity of which so many champions are ready to take up arms: whilst the votaries of it deny themselves no pleasure, they can enjoy, either fashionably or in secret, and, instead of sacrificing the heart to the love of real virtue, can only condescend to abandon the outward deformity of vice, for the satisfaction they receive from appearing to be well-bred. It is counted ridiculous for men to commit violence upon themselves, or to maintain, that virtue requires self-denial: all court philosophers are agreed, that nothing can be lovely or desirable, that is mortifying or uneasy. A civil behaviour among the fair in public, and a deportment inoffensive both in words and actions, is all the chastity the polite world requires in men. What liberties soever a man gives himself in private, his reputation shall never suffer, whilst he conceals his amours from all those that are not unmannerly inquisitive, and takes care that nothing criminal can ever be proved upon him. Si non caste, saltem caute, is a precept that sufficiently shows what every body expects; and though incontinence is owned to be a sin, yet never to have been guilty of it is a character which most single men under thirty would not be fond of, even amongst modest women.

As the world everywhere, in compliment itself, desires to be counted really virtuous, so bare-faced vices, and all trespasses committed in sight of it, are heinous and unpardonable. To see a man drunk in the open street, or any serious assembly at noon-day, is shocking; because it is a violation of the laws of decency, and plainly shows a want of respect, and neglect of duty, which every body is supposed to owe to the public. Men of mean circumstances likewise may be blamed for spending more time or money in drinking, than they can afford; but when these and all worldly considerations are out of the question, drunkenness itself, as it is a sin, an offence to Heaven, is seldom censured; and no man of fortune scruples to own, that he was at such a time in such a company, where they drank very hard. Where nothing is committed, that is either beastly, or otherwise extravagant, societies, that meet on purpose to drink and be merry, reckon their manner of passing away the time as innocent as any other, though most days in the year they spend five or six hours of the four and twenty in that diversion. No man had ever the reputation of being a good companion, that would never drink to excess; and if a man’s constitution be so strong, or himself so cautious, that the dose he takes overnight, never disorders him the next day, the worst that shall be said of him, is, that he loves his bottle with moderation: though every night constantly he makes drinking his pastime, and hardly ever goes to bed entirely sober.

Avarice, it is true, is generally detested; but as men may be as guilty of it by scraping money together, as they can be by hoarding it up, so all the base, the sordid, and unreasonable means of acquiring wealth, ought to be equally condemned and exploded, with the vile, the pitiful, and penurious way of saving it: but the world is more indulgent; no man is taxed with avarice, that will conform with the beau monde, and live every way in splendour, though he should always be raising the rents of his estate, and hardly suffer his tenants to live under him; though he should enrich himself by usury, and all the barbarous advantages that extortion can make of the necessities of others: and though, moreover, he should be a bad paymaster himself, and an unmerciful creditor to the unfortunate; it is all one, no man is counted covetous, who entertains well, and will allow his family what is fashionable for a person in his condition. How often do we see men of very large estates unreasonably solicitous after greater riches! What greediness do some men discover in extending the perquisites of their offices! What dishonourable condescensions are made for places of profit! What slavish attendance is given, and what low submissions and unmanly cringes are made to favourites for pensions, by men that could subsist without them! Yet these things are no reproach to men, and they are never upbraided with them but by their enemies, or those that envy them, and perhaps the discontented and the poor. On the contrary, most of the well-bred people, that live in affluence themselves, will commend them for their diligence and activity; and say of them, that they take care of the main chance; that they are industrious men for their families, and that they know how, and are fit, to live in the world.

But these kind constructions are not more hurtful to the practice of Christianity, than the high opinion which, in an artful education, men are taught to have of their species, is to the belief of its doctrine, if a right use be not made of it. That the great pre-eminence we have over all other creatures we are acquainted with, consists in our rational faculty, is very true; but it is as true, that the more we are taught to admire ourselves, the more our pride increases, and the greater stress we lay on the sufficiency of our reason: For as experience teaches us, that the greater and the more transcendent the esteem is, which men have for their own worth, the less capable they generally are to bear injuries without resentment; so we see, in like manner, that the more exalted the notions are which men entertain of their better part, their reasoning faculty, the more remote and averse they will be from giving their assent to any thing that seems to insult over or contradict it: And asking a man to admit of any thing he cannot comprehend, the proud reasoner calls an affront to human understanding. But as ease and pleasure are the grand aim of the beau monde, and civility is inseparable from their behaviour, whether they are believers or not, so well-bred people never quarrel with the religion they are brought up in: They will readily comply with every ceremony in divine worship they have been used to, and never dispute with you either about the Old or the New Testament, if, in your turn, you will forbear laying great stress upon faith and mysteries, and allow them to give an allegorical, or any other figurative sense to the History of the Creation, and whatever else they cannot comprehend or account for by the light of nature.

I am far from believing, that, among the fashionable people, there are not, in all Christian countries, many persons of stricter virtue, and greater sincerity in religion, than I have here described; but that a considerable part of mankind have a great resemblance to the picture I have been drawing, I appeal to every knowing and candid reader. Horatio, Cleomenes, and Fulvia, are the names I have given to my interlocutors: The first represents one of the modish people I have been speaking of, but rather of the better sort of them as to morality, though he seems to have a greater distrust of the sincerity of clergymen, than he has of that of any other profession, and to be of the opinion, which is expressed in that trite and specious, as well as false and injurious saying, priests of all religions are the same. As to his studies, he is supposed to be tolerably well versed in the classics, and to have read more than is usual for people of quality, that are born to great estates. He is a man of strict honour, and of justice as well as humanity; rather profuse than covetous, and altogether disinterested in his principles. He has been abroad, seen the world, and is supposed to be possessed of the greatest part of the accomplishments that usually gain a man the reputation of being very much of a gentleman.

Cleomenes had been just such another, but was much reformed. As he had formerly, for his amusement only, been dipping into anatomy, and several parts of natural philosophy; so, since he was come home from his travels, he had studied human nature, and the knowledge of himself, with great application. It is supposed, that, whilst he was thus employing most of his leisure hours, he met with the Fable of the Bees; and, making a great use of what he read, compared what he felt himself within, as well as what he had seen in the world, with the sentiments set forth in that book, and found the insincerity of men fully as universal, as it was there represented. He had no opinion of the pleas and excuses that are commonly made to cover the real desires of the heart; and he ever suspected the sincerity of men, whom he saw to be fond of the world, and with eagerness grasping at wealth and power, when they pretended that the great end of their labours was to have opportunities of doing good to others upon earth, and becoming themselves more thankful to Heaven; especially, if they conformed with the beau monde, and seemed to take delight in a fashionable way of living: He had the same suspicion of all men of sense, who, having read and considered the gospel, would maintain the possibility that persons might pursue worldly glory with all their strength, and, at the same time, be good Christians. Cleomenes himself believed the Bible to be the word of God, without reserve, and was entirely convinced of the mysterious, as well as historical truths that are contained in it. But as he was fully persuaded, not only of the veracity of the Christian religion, but likewise of the severity of its precepts, so he attacked his passions with vigour, but never scrupled to own his want of power to subdue them, or the violent opposition he felt from within; often complaining, that the obstacles he met with from flesh and blood, were insurmountable. As he understood perfectly well the difficulty of the task required in the gospel, so he ever opposed those easy casuists, that endeavoured to lessen and extenuate it for their own ends; and he loudly maintained, that men’s gratitude to Heaven was an unacceptable offering, whilst they continued to live in ease and luxury, and were visibly solicitous after their share of the pomp and vanity of this world. In the very politeness of conversation, the complacency with which fashionable people are continually soothing each other’s frailties, and in almost every part of a gentleman’s behaviour, he thought there was a disagreement between the outward appearances, and what is felt within, that was clashing with uprightness and sincerity. Cleomenes was of opinion, that of all religious virtues, nothing was more scarce, or more difficult to acquire, than Christian humility; and that to destroy the possibility of ever attaining to it, nothing was so effectual as what is called a gentleman’s education; and that the more dexterous, by this means, men grew in concealing the outward signs, and every symptom of pride, the more entirely they became enslaved by it within. He carefully examined into the felicity that accrues from the applause of others, and the invisible wages which men of sense and judicious fancy received for their labours; and what it was at the bottom that rendered those airy rewards so ravishing to mortals. He had often observed, and watched narrowly the countenances and behaviour of men, when any thing of theirs was admired or commended, such as the choice of their furniture, the politeness of their entertainments, the elegancy of their equipages, their dress, their diversions, or the fine taste displayed in their buildings.

Cleomenes seemed charitable, and was a man of strict morals, yet he would often complain that he was not possessed of one Christian virtue, and found fault with his own actions, that had all the appearances of goodness; because he was conscious, he said, that they were performed from a wrong principle. The effects of his education, and his aversion to infamy, had always been strong enough to keep him from turpitude; but this he ascribed to his vanity, which he complained was in such full possession of his heart, that he knew no gratification of any appetite from which he was able to exclude it. Having always been a man of unblameable behaviour, the sincerity of his belief had made no visible alteration in his conduct to outward appearances; but in private he never ceased from examining himself. As no man was less prone to enthusiasm than himself, so his life was very uniform; and as he never pretended to high flights of devotion, so he never was guilty of enormous offences. He had a strong aversion to rigorists of all sorts; and when he saw men quarrelling about forms and creeds, and the interpretation of obscure places, and requiring of others the strictest compliance to their own opinions in disputable matters, it raised his indignation to see the generality of them want charity, and many of them scandalously remiss in the plainest and most necessary duties. He took uncommon pains to search into human nature, and left no stone unturned, to detect the pride and hypocrisy of it, and, among his intimate friends, to expose the stratagems of the one, and the exorbitant power of the other. He was sure, that the satisfaction which arose from worldly enjoyments, was something distinct from gratitude, and foreign to religion; and he felt plainly, that as it proceeded from within, so it centered in himself: The very relish of life, he said, was accompanied with an elevation of mind, that seemed to be inseparable from his being. Whatever principle was the cause of this, he was convinced within himself, that the sacrifice of the heart, which the gospel requires, consisted in the utter extirpation of that principle; confessing, at the same time, that this satisfaction he found in himself, this elevation of mind, caused his chief pleasure; and that, in all the comforts of life, it made the greatest part of the enjoyment.

Cleomenes, with grief, often owned his fears, that his attachment to the world would never cease whilst he lived; the reasons he gave, were the great regard he continued to have for the opinion of worldly men; the stubbornness of his indocile heart, that could not be brought to change the objects of its pride; and refused to be ashamed of what, from his infancy, it had been taught to glory in; and, lastly, the impossibility, he found in himself, of being ever reconciled to contempt, and enduring, with patience, to be laughed at and despised for any cause, or on any consideration whatever. These were the obstacles, he said, that hindered him from breaking off all commerce with the beau monde, and entirely changing his manner of living; without which, he thought it mockery to talk of renouncing the world, and bidding adieu to all the pomp and vanity of it.

The part of Fulvia, which is the third person, is so inconsiderable, she just appearing only in the first dialogue, that it would be impertinent to trouble the reader with a character of her. I had a mind to say some things on painting and operas, which I thought might, by introducing her, be brought in more naturally, and with less trouble, than they could have been without her. The ladies, I hope, will find no reason, from the little she does say, to suspect that she wants either virtue or understanding.

As to the fable, or what is supposed to have occasioned the first dialogue between Horatio and Cleomenes, it is this. Horatio, who had found great delight in my Lord Shaftsbury’s polite manner of writing, his fine raillery, and blending virtue with good manners, was a great stickler for the social system; and wondered how Cleomenes could be an advocate for such a book as the Fable of the Bees, of which he had heard a very vile character from several quarters. Cleomenes, who loved and had a great friendship for Horatio, wanted to undeceive him; but the other, who hated satire, was prepossessed, and having been told likewise, that martial courage, and honour itself, were ridiculed in that book, he was very much exasperated against the author and his whole scheme: he had two or three times heard Cleomenes discourse on this subject with others; but would never enter into the argument himself; and finding his friend often pressing to come to it, he began to look cooly upon him, and at last to avoid all opportunities of being alone with him: till Cleomenes drew him in, by the stratagem which the reader will see he made use of, as Horatio was one day taking his leave after a short complimentary visit.

I should not wonder to see men of candour, as well as good sense, find fault with the manner, in which I have chose to publish these thoughts of mine to the world: There certainly is something in it, which I confess I do not know how to justify to my own satisfaction. That such a man as Cleomenes, having met with a book agreeable to his own sentiments, should desire to be acquainted with the author of it, has nothing in it that is improbable or unseemly; but then it will be objected, that, whoever the interlocutors are, it was I myself who wrote the dialogues; and that it is contrary to all decency, that a man should proclaim concerning his own work, all that a friend of his, perhaps, might be allowed to say: this is true; and the best answer which I think can be made to it, is, that such an impartial man, and such a lover of truth, as Cleomenes is represented to be, would be as cautious in speaking of his friend’s merit, as he would be of his own. It might be urged likewise, that when a man professes himself to be an author’s friend, and exactly to entertain the same sentiments with another, it must naturally put every reader upon his guard, and render him as suspicious and distrustful of such a man, as he would be of the author himself. But how good soever the excuses are, that might be made for this manner of writing, I would never have ventured upon it, if I had not liked it in the famous Gassendus, who, by the help of several dialogues and a friend, who is the chief personage in them, has not only explained and illustrated his system, but likewise refuted his adversaries: him I have followed, and I hope the reader will find, that whatever opportunity I have had by this means, of speaking well of myself indirectly, I had no design to make that, or any other ill use of it.

As it is supposed, that Cleomenes is my friend, and speaks my sentiments, so it is but justice, that every thing which he advances should be looked upon and considered as my own; but no man in his senses would think, that I ought to be equally responsible for every thing that Horatio says, who is his antagonist. If ever he offers any thing that favours of libertinism, or is otherwise exceptionable, which Cleomenes does not reprove him for in the best and most serious manner, or to which he gives not the most satisfactory and convincing answer that can be made, I am to blame, otherwise not. Yet from the fate the first part has met with, I expect to see in a little time several things transcribed and cited from this, in that manner, by themselves, without the replies that are made to them, and so shown to the world, as my words and my opinion. The opportunity of doing this will be greater in this part than it was in the former, and should I always have fair play, and never be attacked, but by such adversaries, as would make their quotations from me without artifice, and use me with common honesty, it would go a great way to the refuting of me; and I should myself begin to suspect the truth of several things I have advanced, and which hitherto I cannot help believing.

A stroke made in this manner,——which the reader will sometimes meet with in the following dialogues, is a sign, either of interruption, when the person speaking is not suffered to go on with what he was going to say, or else of a pause, during which something is supposed to be said or done, not relating to the discourse.

As in this part I have not altered the subject, on which a former, known by the name of the Fable of the Bees, was wrote; and the same unbiassed method of searching after truth, and inquiring into the nature of man and society, made use of in that, is continued in this, I thought it unnecessary to look out for another title; and being myself a great lover of simplicity, and my invention none of the most fruitful, the reader, I hope, will pardon the bald, inelegant aspect, and unusual emptiness of the title page.

Here I would have made an end of my Preface, which I know very well is too long already: but the world having been very grossly imposed upon by a false report, that some months ago was very solemnly made, and as industriously spread in most of the newspapers, for a considerable time, I think it would be an unpardonable neglect in me, of the public, should I suffer them; to remain in the error they were led into, when I am actually addressing them; and there is no other person, from whom they can so justly expect to be undeceived. In the London Evening Post of Saturday March 9, 1727–8, the following paragraph was printed in small Italic, at the end of the home news.

On Friday evening the first instant, a gentleman, well-dressed, appeared at the bonfire before St. James’s Gate, who declared himself the author of a book, intituled, the Fable of the Bees; and that he was sorry for writing the same: and recollecting his former promise, pronounced these words: I commit my book to the flames; and threw it in accordingly.

The Monday following, the same piece of news was repeated in the Daily Journal, and after that for a considerable time, as I have said, in most of the papers: but since the Saturday mentioned, which was the only time it was printed by itself, it appeared always with a small addition to it, and annexed (with a N. B. before it) to the following advertisement.

ΑΡΕΤΗ-ΛΟΓΙΑ:

Or an Inquiry into the Original of Moral Virtue, wherein the false notions of Machiavel, Hobbs, Spinosa, and Mr. Bayle, as they are collected and digested by the Author of the Fable of the Bees, are examined and confuted; and the eternal and unalterable nature and obligation of moral virtue is stated and vindicated; to which is prefixed, a Prefatory Introduction, in a Letter to that Author, By Alexander Innes, D. D. Preacher Assistant at St. Margaret’s, Westminster.

The small addition which I said was made to that notable piece of news, after it came to be annexed to this advertisement, consisted of these five words (upon reading the above book), which were put in after, “sorry for writing the same.” This story having been often repeated in the papers, and never publicly contradicted, many people, it seems, were credulous enough to believe, notwithstanding the improbability of it. But the least attentive would have suspected the whole, as soon as they had seen the addition that was made to it, the second time it was published; for supposing it to be intelligible, as it follows the advertisement, it cannot be pretended, that the repenting gentleman pronounced those very words. He must have named the book; and if he had said, that his sorrow was occasioned by reading the ΑΡΕΤΗ-ΛΟΓΙΑ, or the new book of the reverend Dr. Innes, how came such a remarkable part of his confession to be omitted in the first publication, where the well-dressed gentleman’s words and actions seemed to be set down with so much care and exactness? Besides, every body knows the great industry, and general intelligence of our news-writers: if such a farce had really been acted, and a man had been hired to pronounce the words mentioned, and throw a book into the fire, which I have often wondered was not done, is it credible at all, that a thing so remarkable, done so openly, and before so many witnesses, the first day of March, should not be taken notice of in any of the papers before the ninth, and never be repeated afterwards, or ever mentioned but as an appendix of the advertisement to recommend Dr. Innes’s book?

However, this story has been much talked of, and occasioned a great deal of mirth among my acquaintance, several of whom have earnestly pressed me more than once to advertise the falsity of it, which I would never comply with for fear of being laughed at, as some years ago poor Dr. Patridge was, for seriously maintaining that he was not dead. But all this while we were in the dark, and nobody could tell how this report came into the world, or what it could be that had given a handle to it, when one evening a friend of mine, who had borrowed Dr. Innes’s book, which till then I had never seen, showed me in it the following lines.

But à propos Sir, if I rightly remember, the ingenuous Mr. Law, in his Remarks upon your Fable of the Bees, puts you in mind of a promise you had made, by which you obliged yourself to burn that book at any time or place your adversary should appoint, if any thing should be found in it tending to immorality or the corruption of manners. I have a great respect for that gentleman, though I am not personally acquainted with him, but I cannot but condemn his excessive credulity and good nature, in believing that a man of your principles could be a slave to his word; for my own part, I think, I know you too well to be so easily imposed upon; or if, after all, you should. really persist in your resolution, and commit it to the flames, I appoint the first of March, before St. James’s Gate, for that purpose, it being the birthday of the best and most glorious queen upon earth; and the burning of your book the smallest atonement you can make, for endeavouring to corrupt and debauch his majesty’s subjects in their principles. Now, Sir, if you agree to this, I hope you are not so destitute of friends, but that you may find some charitable neighbour or other, who will lend you a helping hand, and throw in the author at the same time by way of appendix; the doing of which will, in my opinion, complete the solemnity of the day. I am not your patient, but, your most humble servant.

Thus ends what, in the ΑΡΕΤΗ-ΛΟΓΙΑ Doctor Innes is pleased to call a Prefatory Introduction, in a Letter to the Author of the Fable of the Bees. It is signed A. I. and dated Tot-hill-fields, Westminster, Jan. 20. 1727–8.

Now all our wonder ceased. The judicious reader will easily allow me, that, having read thus much, I had an ample dispensation from going on any further; therefore I can say nothing of the book: and as to the reverend author of it, who seems to think himself so well acquainted with my principles, I have not the honour to know either him or his morals, otherwise than from what I have quoted here. Ex pede Herculem.

London, October 20. 1728.

THE FIRST
DIALOGUE.
BETWEEN
HORATIO, CLEOMENES, and FULVIA.

CLEOMENES.

Always in haste, Horatio?

Hor. I must beg of you to excuse me, I am obliged to go.

Cleo. Whether you have other engagements than you used to have, or whether your temper is changed, I cannot tell, but something has made an alteration in you, of which I cannot comprehend the cause. There is no man in the world whose friendship I value more than I do yours, or whose company I like better, yet I can never have it. I profess I have thought sometimes that you have avoided me on purpose.

Hor. I am sorry, Cleomenes, I should have been wanting in civility to you; I come every week constantly to pay my respects to you, and if ever I fail, I always send to inquire after your health.

Cleo. No man outdoes Horatio in civility; but I thought something more was due to our affections and long acquaintance, besides compliments and ceremony: Of late I have never been to wait upon you, but you are gone abroad, or I find you engaged; and when I have the honour to see you here, your stay is only momentary. Pray pardon my rudeness for once: What is it that hinders you now from keeping me company for an hour or two? My cousin talks of going out, and I shall be all alone.

Hor. I know better than to rob you of such an opportunity for speculation?

Cleo. Speculation! on what, pray?

Hor. That vileness of our species in the refined way of thinking you have of late been so fond of, I call it the scheme of deformity, the partisans of which study chiefly to make every thing in our nature appear as ugly and contemptible as it is possible, and take uncommon pains to persuade men that they are devils.

Cleo. If that be all, I shall soon convince you.

Hor. No conviction to me, I beseech you: I am determined, and fully persuaded, that there is good in the world as well as evil; and that the words, honesty, benevolence, and humanity, and even charity, are not empty sounds only, but that there are such things in spite of the Fable of the Bees; and I am resolved to believe, that, notwithstanding the degeneracy of mankind, and the wickedness of the age, there are men now living, who are actually possessed of those virtues.

Cleo. But you do not know what I am going to say: I am——

Hor. That may be, but I will not hear one word; all you can say is lost upon me, and if you will not give me leave to speak out, I am gone this moment. That cursed book has bewitched you, and made you deny the existence of those very virtues that had gained you the esteem of your friends. You know this is not my usual language; I hate to say harsh things: But what regard can, or ought one to have for an author that treats every body de haut en bas, makes a jest of virtue and honour, calls Alexander the Great a madman, and spares kings and princes no more than any one, would the most abject of the people? The business of his philosophy is just the reverse to that of the herald’s office; for, as there they are always contriving and finding out high and illustrious pedigrees for low and obscure people, so your author is ever searching after, and inventing mean contemptible origins for worthy and honourable actions. I am your very humble servant.

Cleo. Stay. I am of your opinion; what I offered to convince you of, was, how entirely I am recovered of the folly which you have so justly exposed: I have left that error.

Hor. Are you in earnest?

Cleo. No man more: There is no greater stickler for the social virtues than myself; and I much question, whether there is any of Lord Shaftsbury’s admirers that will go my lengths!

Hor. I shall be glad to see you go my lengths first, and as many more as you please. You cannot conceive, Cleomenes, how it has grieved me, when I have seen how many enemies you made yourself by that extravagant way of arguing. If you are but serious, whence comes this change?

Cleo. In the first place, I grew weary of having every body against me: and, in the second, there is more room for invention in the other system. Poets and orators in the social system have fine opportunities of exerting themselves.

Hor. I very much suspect the recovery you boast of: Are you convinced, that the other system was false, which you might have easily learned from seeing every body against you?

Cleo. False to be sure; but what you allege is no proof of it: for if the greatest part of mankind were not against that scheme of deformity, as you justly call it, insincerity could not be so general, as the scheme itself supposes it to be: But since my eyes have been opened, I have found out that truth and probability are the silliest things in the world; they are of no manner of use, especially among the people de bon gout.

Hor. I thought what a convert you was: but what new madness has seized you now?

Cleo. No madness at all: I say, and will maintain it to the world, that truth, in the sublime, is very impertinent; and that in the arts and sciences, fit for men of taste to look into, a master cannot commit a more unpardonable fault, than sticking to, or being influenced by truth, where it interferes with what is agreeable.

Hor. Homely truths indeed——

Cleo. Look upon that Dutch piece of the nativity: what charming colouring there is! What a fine pencil, and how just are the outlines for a piece so curiously finished! But what a fool the fellow was to draw hay, and straw, and water, and a rack as well as a manger: it is a wonder he did not put the bambino into the manger.

Ful. The bambino? That is the child, I suppose: why it should be in the manger; should it not? Does not the history tell us, that the child was laid in the manger? I have no skill in painting; but I can see whether things are drawn to the life or not: sure nothing can be more like the head of an ox than that there. A picture then pleases me best when the art in such a manner deceives my eye, that, without making any allowance, I can imagine I see the things in reality which the painter has endeavoured to represent. I have always thought it an admirable piece; sure nothing in the world can be more like nature.

Cleo. Like nature! So much the worse: Indeed, cousin, it is easily seen, that you have no skill in painting. It is not nature, but agreeable nature, la belle nature, that is to be represented: all things that are abject, low, pitiful, and mean, are carefully to be avoided, and kept out of sight; because, to men of the true taste, they are as offensive as things that are shocking, and really nasty.

Ful. At that rate, the Virgin Mary’s condition, and our Saviour’s birth, are never to be painted.

Cleo. That is your mistake; the subject itself is noble: Let us go but in the next room, and I will show you the difference.——Look upon that picture, which is the same history. There is fine architecture, there is a colonnade; can any thing be thought of more magnificent? How skilfully is that ass removed, and how little you see of the ox: pray, mind the obscurity they are both placed in. It hangs in a strong light, or else one might look ten times upon the picture without observing them: Behold these pillars of the Corinthian order, how lofty they are, and what an effect they have, what a noble space, what an area here is! How nobly every thing concurs to express the majestic grandeur of the subject, and strikes the soul with awe and admiration at the same time!

Ful. Pray cousin, has good sense ever any share in the judgment which your men of true taste form about pictures?

Hor. Madam!

Ful. I beg pardon, Sir, if I have offended: but to me it seems strange to hear such commendations given to a painter, for turning the stable of a country inn into a palace of extraordinary magnificence: This is a great deal worse than Swift’s Metamorphosis of Philemon and Baucis; for there some show of resemblance is kept in the changes.

Hor. In a country stable, Madam, there is nothing but filth and nastiness, or vile abject things not fit to be seen, at least not capable of entertaining persons of quality.

Ful. The Dutch picture in the next room has nothing that is offensive: but an Augean stable, even before Hercules had cleaned it, would be less shocking to me than those fluted pillars; for nobody can please my eye that affronts my understanding: When I desire a man to paint a considerable history, which every body knows to have been transacted at a country inn, does he not strangely impose upon me, because he understands architecture, to draw me a room that might have served for a great hall, or banqueting-house, to any Roman emperor? Besides, that the poor and abject state in which our Saviour chose to appear at his coming into the world, is the most material circumstance of the history: it contains an excellent moral against vain pomp, and is the strongest persuasive to humility, which, in the Italian, are more than lost.

Hor. Indeed, Madam, experience is against you; and it is certain, that, even among the vulgar, the representations of mean and abject things, and such as they are familiar with, have not that effect, and either breed contempt, or are insignificant: whereas vast piles, stately buildings, roofs of uncommon height, surprising ornaments, and all the architecture of the grand taste, are the fittest to raise devotion, and inspire men with veneration, and a religious awe for the places that have these excellencies to boast of. Is there ever a meeting-house or barn to be compared to a fine cathedral, for this purpose?

Ful. I believe there is a mechanical way of raising devotion in silly superstitious creatures; but an attentive contemplation on the works of God, I am sure——

Cleo. Pray, cousin, say no more in defence of your low taste: The painter has nothing to do with the truth of the history; his business is to express the dignity of the subject, and, in compliment to his judges, never to forget the excellency of our species: All his art and good sense must be employed in raising that to the highest pitch; Great masters do not paint for the common people, but for persons of refined understanding: What you complain o£ is the effect of the good manners and complaisance of the painter. When he had drawn the Infant and the Madona, he thought the least glimpse of the ox and the ass would be sufficient to acquaint you with the history: They who want more fescuing, and a broader explanation, he does not desire his picture should ever be shown to; for the rest, he entertains you with nothing but what is noble and worthy your attention: You see he is an architect, and completely skilled in perspective, and he shows you how finely he can round a pillar, and that both the depth, and the height of a space, may be drawn on a flat, with all the other wonders he performs by his skill in that inconceivable mystery of light and shadows.

Ful. Why then is it pretended that painting is an imitation of nature?

Cleo. At first setting out a scholar is to copy things exactly as he sees them; but from a great matter, when he is left to his own invention, it is expected he should take the perfections of nature, and not paint it as it is, but as we would wish it to be. Zeuxis, to draw a goddess, took five beautiful women, from which he culled what was most graceful in each.

Ful. Still every grace he painted was taken from nature.

Cleo. That’s true; but he left nature her rubbish, and imitated nothing but what was excellent, which made the assemblage superior to any thing in nature. Demetrius was taxed for being too natural; Dionysus was also blamed for drawing men like us. Nearer our times, Michael Angelo was esteemed too natural, and Lysippus of old upbraided the common sort of sculptors for making men such as they were found in nature.

Ful. Are these things real?

Cleo. You may read it yourself in Graham’s Preface to The Art of Painting: the book is above in the library.

Hor. These things may seem strange to you, Madam, but they are of immense use to the public: the higher we can carry the excellency of our species, the more those beautiful images will fill noble minds with worthy and suitable ideas of their own dignity, that will seldom fail of spurring them on to virtue and heroic actions. There is a grandeur to be expressed in things that far surpasses the beauties of simple nature. You take delight in operas, Madam, I do not question; you must have minded the noble manner and stateliness beyond nature, which every thing there is executed with. What gentle touches, what slight and yet majestic motions are made use of to express the most boisterous passions! As the subject is always lofty, so no posture is to be chosen but what is serious and significant, as well as comely and agreeable; should the actions there be represented as they are in common life, they would ruin the sublime, and at once rob you of all your pleasure.

Ful. I never expected any thing natural at an opera; but as persons of distinction resort thither, and every body comes dressed, it is a sort of employment, and I seldom miss a night, because it is the fashion to go: besides, the royal family, and the monarch himself, generally honouring them with their presence, it is almost become a duty to attend them, as much as it is to go to court. What diverts me there is the company, the lights, the music, the scenes, and other decorations: but as I understand but very few words of Italian, so what is most admired in the recitativo is lost upon me, which makes the acting part to me rather ridiculous than——

Hor. Ridiculous, Madam! For Heaven’s sake——

Ful. I beg pardon, Sir, for the expression, I never laughed at an opera in my life; but I confess, as to the entertainment itself, that a good play is infinitely more diverting to me; and I prefer any thing that informs my understanding beyond all the recreations which either my eyes or my ears can be regaled with.

Hor. I am sorry to hear a lady of your good sense make such a choice. Have you no taste for music, Madam?

Ful. I named that as part of my diversion.

Cleo. My cousin plays very well upon the harpsichord herself.

Ful. I love to hear good music; but it does not throw me into those raptures, I hear others speak of.

Hor. Nothing certainly can elevate the mind beyond a fine concert: it seems to disengage the soul from the body, and lift it up to heaven. It is in this situation, that we are most capable of receiving extraordinary impressions: when the instruments cease, our temper is subdued, and beautiful action joins with the skilful voice, in setting before us in a transcendent light, the heroic labours we are come to admire, and which the word Opera imports. The powerful harmony between the engaging sounds and speaking gestures invades the heart, and forcibly inspires us with those noble sentiments, which to entertain, the most expressive words can only attempt to persuade us. Few comedies are tolerable, and in the best of them, if the levity of the expressions does not corrupt, the meanness of the subject must debase the manners; at least to persons of quality. In tragedies the style is more sublime; and the subjects generally great; but all violent passions, and even the representations of them, ruffle and discompose the mind: besides, when men endeavour to express things strongly, and they are acted to the life, it often happens that the images do mischief, because they are too moving, and that the action is faulty for being too natural; and experience teaches us, that in unguarded minds, by those pathetic performances, flames are often raised that are prejudicial to virtue. The playhouses themselves are far from being inviting, much less the companies, at least the greatest part of them that frequent them, some of which are almost of the lowest rank of all. The disgust that persons of the least elegance receive from these people are many; besides, the ill scents, and unseemly sights one meets with, of careless rakes and impudent wenches, that, having paid their money, reckon themselves to be all upon the level with every body there; the oaths, scurrilities, and vile jests one is often obliged to hear, without resenting them; and the odd mixture of high and low that are all partaking of the same diversion, without regard to dress or quality, are all very offensive; and it cannot but be very disagreeable to polite people to be in the same crowd with a variety of persons, some of them below mediocrity, that pay no deference to one another. At the opera, every thing charms and concurs to make happiness complete. The sweetness of voice, in the first place, and the solemn composure of the action, serve to mitigate and allay every passion; it is the gentleness of them, and the calm serenity of the mind, that make us amiable, and bring us the nearest to the perfection of angels; whereas, the violence of the passions, in which the corruption of the heart chiefly consists, dethrones our reason, and renders us more like unto savages. It is incredible, how prone we are to imitation, and how strangely, unknown to ourselves, we are shaped and fashioned after the models and examples that are often set before us. No anger nor jealousy are ever to be seen at an opera, that distort the features; no flames that are noxious, nor is any love represented in them, that is not pure and next to seraphic; and it is impossible for the remembrance to carry any thing away from them, that can sully the imagination. Secondly, the company is of another sort: the place itself is a security to peace, as well as every one’s honour; and it is impossible to name another, where blooming innocence and irresistible beauty stand in so little need of guardians. Here we are sure never to meet with petulancy or ill manners, and to be free from immodest ribaldry, libertine wit, and detestable satire. If you will mind, on the one hand, the richness and splendour of dress, and the quality of the persons that appear in them; the variety of colours, and the lustre of the fair in a spacious theatre, well illuminated and adorned; and on the other, the grave deportment of the assembly, and the consciousness that appears in every countenance, of the respect they owe to each other, you will be forced to confess, that upon earth there cannot be a pastime more agreeable: believe me, Madam, there is no place, where both sexes have such opportunities of imbibing exalted sentiments, and raising themselves above the vulgar, as they have at the opera; and there is no other sort of diversion or assembly, from the frequenting of which, young persons of quality can have equal hopes of forming their manners, and contracting a strong and lasting habit of virtue.

Ful. You have said more in commendation of operas, Horatio, than I ever heard or thought of before; and I think every body who loves that diversion is highly obliged to you. The grand gout, I believe, is a great help in panegyric, especially, where it is an incivility strictly to examine and over-curiously to look into matters.

Cleo. What say you now, Fulvia, of nature and good sense, are they not quite beat out of doors?

Ful. I have heard nothing yet, to make me out of conceit with good sense; though what you insinuated of nature, as if it was not to be imitated in painting, is an opinion, I must confess, which hitherto I more admire at, than I can approve of it.

Hor. I would never recommend any thing, Madam, that is repugnant to good sense; but Cleomenes must have some design in over-acting the part he pretends to have chosen. What he said about painting is very true, whether he spoke it in jest or in earnest; but he talks so diametrically opposite to the opinion which he is known every where to defend of late, that I do not know what to make of him.

Ful. I am convinced of the narrowness of my own understanding, and am going to visit some persons, with whom I shall be more upon the level.

Hor. You will give me leave to wait upon you to your coach, Madam.——Pray, Cleomenes, what is it you have got in your head?

Cleo. Nothing at all: I told you before, that I was so entirely recovered from my folly, that few people went my lengths. What jealousy you entertain of me I do not know; but I find myself much improved in the social system. Formerly I thought, that chief ministers, and all those at the helm of affairs, acted from principles of avarice and ambition; that in all the pains they took, and even in the slaveries they underwent for the public good, they had their private ends, and that they were supported in the fatigue by secret enjoyments they were unwilling to own. It is not a month ago, that I imagined that the inward care and real solicitude of all great men centered within themselves; and that to enrich themselves, acquire titles of honour, and raise their families on the one hand, and to have opportunities on the other of displaying a judicious fancy to all the elegant comforts of life, and establishing, without the least trouble of self-denial, the reputation of being wise, humane, and munificent, were the things, which, besides the satisfaction there is in superiority and the pleasure of governing, all candidates to high offices and great posts proposed to themselves, from the places they sued for: I was so narrow minded, that I could not conceive how a man would ever voluntarily submit to be a slave but to serve himself. But I have abandoned that ill-natured way of judging: I plainly perceive the public good, in all the designs of politicians, the social virtues shine in every action, and I find that the national interest is the compass that all statesmen steer by.

Hor. That is more than I can prove; but certainly there have been such men, there have been patriots, that without selfish views have taken incredible pains for their country’s welfare: nay, there are men now that would do the same, if they were employed; and we have had princes that have neglected their ease and pleasure, and sacrificed their quiet, to promote the prosperity and increase the wealth and honour of the kingdom, and had nothing so much at heart as the happiness of their subjects.

Cleo. No disaffection, I beg of you. The difference between past and present times, and persons in and out of places, is perhaps clearer to you than it is to me; but it is many years ago, you know, that it has been agreed between us never to enter into party disputes: what I desire your attention to, is my reformation, which you seem to doubt of, and the great change that is wrought in me. The religion of most kings and other high potentates, I formerly had but a slender opinion of, but now I measure their piety by what they say of it themselves to their subjects.

Hor. That is very kindly done.

Cleo. By thinking meanly of things, I once had strange blundering notions concerning foreign wars: I thought that many of them arose from trifling causes, magnified by politicians for their own ends; that the most ruinous misunderstandings between states and kingdoms might spring from the hidden malice, folly, or caprice of one man; that many of them had been owing to the private quarrels, piques, resentments, and the haughtiness of the chief ministers of the respective nations, that were the sufferers; and that what is called personal hatred between princes seldom was more at first, than either an open or secret animosity which the two great favourites of those courts had against one another: but now I have learned to derive those things from higher causes. I am reconciled likewise to the luxury of the voluptuous, which I used to be offended at, because now I am convinced that the money of most rich men, is laid out with the social design of promoting arts and sciences, and that in the most expensive undertakings their principal aim is the employment of the poor.

Hor. These are lengths indeed.

Cleo. I have a strong aversion to satire, and detest it every whit as much as you do: the most instructive writings to understand the world, and penetrate into the heart of man, I take to be addresses, epithets, dedications, and above all, the preambles to patents, of which I am making a large collection.

Hor. A very useful undertaking!

Cleo. But to remove all your doubts of my conversion, I will show you some easy rules I have laid down for young beginners.

Hor. What to do?

Cleo. To judge of mens actions by the lovely system of Lord Shaftsbury, in a manner diametrically opposite to that of the Fable of the Bees.

Hor. I do not understand you.

Cleo. You will presently. I have called them rules, but they are rather examples from which the rules are to be gathered: as for instance, if we see an industrious poor woman, who has pinched her belly, and gone in rags for a considerable time to save forty shillings, part with her money to put out her son at six years of age to a chimney-sweeper; to judge of her charitably, according to the system of the social virtues, we must imagine, that though she never paid for the sweeping of a chimney in her life, she knows by experience, that for want of this necessary cleanliness the broth has been often spoiled, and many a chimney has been set on fire, and therefore to do good in her generation, as far as she is able, she gives up her all, both offspring and estate, to assist in preventing the several mischiefs that are often occasioned by great quantities of soot disregarded; and, free from selfishness, sacrifices her only son to the most wretched employment for the public welfare.

Hor. You do not vie I see with Lord Shaftsbury, for loftiness of subjects.

Cleo. When in a starry night with amazement we behold the glory of the firmament, nothing is more obvious than that the whole, the beautiful all, must be the workmanship of one great Architect of power and wisdom stupendous; and it is as evident, that every thing in the universe is a constituent part of one entire fabric.

Hor. Would you make a jest of this too.

Cleo. Far from it: they are awful truths, of which I am as much convinced as I am of my own existence; but I was going to name the consequences, which Lord Shaftsbury draws from them, in order to demonstrate to you, that I am a convert, and a very punctual observer of his Lordship’s instructions, and that, in my judgment on the poor woman’s conduct, there is nothing that is not entirely agreeable to the generous way of thinking set forth and recommended in the Characteristics.

Hor. Is it possible a man should read such a book, and make no better use of it! I desire you would name the consequences you speak of.

Cleo. As that infinity of luminous bodies, however different in magnitude, velocity, and the figures they describe in their courses, concur all of them to make up the universe, so this little spot we inhabit is likewise a compound of air, water, fire, minerals, vegetables, and living creatures, which, though vastly differing from one another in their nature, do altogether make up the body of this terraqueous globe.

Hor. This is very right, and in the same manner as our whole species is composed of many nations of different religions, forms of government, interests and manners that divide and share the earth between them; so the civil society in every nation consists in great multitudes of both sexes, that widely differing from each other in age, constitution, strength, temper, wisdom and possessions, all help to make up one body politic.

Cleo. The same exactly which I would have said: now, pray Sir, is not the great end of men’s forming themselves into such societies, mutual happiness; I mean, do not all individual persons, from being thus combined, propose to themselves a more comfortable condition of life, than human creatures, if they were to live like other wild animals, without tie or dependance, could enjoy in a free and savage state?

Hor. This certainly is not only the end, but the end which is every where attained to by government and society, in some degree or other.

Cleo. Hence it must follow, that it is always wrong for men to pursue gain or pleasure, by means that are visibly detrimental to the civil society, and that creatures who can do this must be narrow-souled, short-sighted, selfish people; whereas, wise men never look upon themselves as individual persons, without considering the whole, of which they are but trifling parts in respect to bulk, and are incapable of receiving any satisfaction from things that interfere with the public welfare. This being undeniably true, ought not all private advantage to give way to this general interest; and ought it not to be every one’s endeavour, to increase this common stock of happiness; and, in order to it, do what he can to render himself a serviceable and useful member of that whole body which he belongs to?

Hor. What of all this?

Cleo. Has not my poor woman, in what I have related of her, acted in conformity to this social system?

Hor. Can any one in his senses imagine, that an indigent thoughtless wretch, without sense or education, should ever act from such generous principles?

Cleo. Poor I told you the woman was, and I will not insist upon her education; but as for her being thoughtless and void of sense, you will give me leave to say, that it is an aspersion for which you have no manner of foundation; and from the account I have given of her, nothing can be gathered but that she was a considerate, virtuous, wise woman, in poverty.

Hor. I suppose you would persuade me that you are in earnest.

Cleo. I am much more so than you imagine; and say once, more, that, in the example I have given, I have trod exactly in my Lord Shaftsbury’s steps, and closely followed the social system. If I have committed any error, show it me.

Hor. Did that author ever meddle with any thing so low and pitiful.

Cleo. There can be nothing mean in noble actions, whoever the persons are that perform them. But if the vulgar are to be all excluded from the social virtues, what rule or instruction shall the labouring poor, which are by far the greatest part of the nation, have left them to walk by, when the Characteristics have made a jest of all revealed religion, especially the Christian? but if you despise the poor and illiterate, I can, in the same method, judge of men in higher stations. Let the enemies to the social system behold the venerable counsellor, now grown eminent for his wealth, that at his great age continues sweltering at the bar to plead the doubtful cause, and, regardless of his dinner, shorten his own life in endeavouring to secure the possessions of others. How conspicuous is the benevolence of the physician to his kind, who, from morning till night, visiting the sick, keeps several sets of horses to be more serviceable to many, and still grudges himself the time for the necessary functions of life! In the same manner the indefatigable clergyman, who, with his ministry, supplies a very large parish already, solicits with zeal to be as useful and beneficent to another, though fifty of his order, yet unemployed, offer their service for the same purpose.

Hor. I perceive your drift: from the strained panegyrics you labour at, you would form arguments ad absurdum: the banter is ingenious enough, and, at proper times, might serve to raise a laugh; but then you must own likewise, that those studied encomiums will not bear to be seriously examined into. When we consider that the great business as well as perpetual solicitude of the poor, are to supply their immediate wants, and keep themselves from starving, and that their children are a burden to them, which they groan under, and desire to be delivered from by all possible means, that are not clashing with the low involuntary affection which nature forces them to have for their offspring: when, I say, we consider this, the virtues of your industrious make no great figure. The public spirit likewise, and the generous principles, your sagacity has found out in the three faculties, to which men are brought up for a livelihood, seem to be very far fetched. Fame, wealth, and greatness, every age can witness: but whatever labour or fatigue they submit to, the motives of their actions are as conspicuous as their calling themselves.

Cleo. Are they not beneficial to mankind, and of use to the public?

Hor. I do not deny that; we often receive inestimable benefits from them, and the good ones in either profession are not only useful, but very necessary to the society: but though there are several that sacrifice their whole lives, and all the comforts of them, to their business, there is not one of them that would take a quarter of the pains he now is at, if, without taking any, he could acquire the same money, reputation, and other advantages that may accrue to him from the esteem or gratitude of those whom he has been serviceable to; and I do not believe, there is an eminent man among them that would not own this if the question was put to him. Therefore, when ambition and the love of money are avowed principles men act from, it is very silly to ascribe virtues to them, which they themselves pretend to lay no manner of claim to. But your encomium upon the parson is the merriest jest of all: I have heard many excuses made, and some of them very frivolous, for the covetousness of priests; but what you have picked out in their praise is more extraordinary than any thing I ever met with; and the most partial advocate and admirer of the clergy never yet discovered before yourself a great virtue in their hunting after pluralities, when they were well provided for themselves, and many others for want of employ were ready to starve.

Cleo. But if there be any reality in the social system, it would be better for the public, if men, in, all professions, were to act from those generous principles; and you will allow, that the society would be the gainers, if the generality in the three faculties would mind others more, and themselves less than they do now.

Hor. I do not know that; and considering what slavery some lawyers, as well as physicians, undergo, I much question whether it would be possible for them to exert themselves in the same manner though they would, if the constant baits and refreshments of large fees did not help to support human nature, by continually stimulating this darling passion.

Cleo. Indeed, Horatio, this is a stronger argument against the social system, and more injurious to it than any thing that has been said by the author whom you have exclaimed against with so much bitterness.

Hor. I deny that: I do not conclude from the selfishness in some, that there is no virtue in others.

Cleo. Nor he neither, and you very much wrong him if you assert that he ever did.

Hor. I refuse to commend what is not praise-worthy; but as bad as mankind are, virtue has an existence as well as vice, though it is more scarce.

Cleo. What you said last, nobody ever contradicted; but I do not know what you would be at: does not the Lord Shaftsbury endeavour to do good, and promote the social virtues, and am I not doing the very same? suppose me to be in the wrong in the favourable constructions I have made of things, still it is to be wished for at least, that men had a greater regard to the public welfare, less fondness for their private interest, and more charity for their neighbours, than the generality of them have.

Hor. To be wished for, perhaps, it may be, but what probability is there that this ever will come to pass?

Cleo. And unless that can come to pass, it is the idlest thing in the world to discourse upon, and demonstrate the excellency of virtue; what signifies it to set forth the beauty of it, unless it was possible that men should fall in love with it?

Hor. If virtue was never recommended, men might grow worse than they are.

Cleo. Then, by the same reason, if it was recommended more, men might grow better than they are. But I see perfectly well the reason of these shifts and evasions you make use of against your opinion: You find yourself under a necessity of allowing my panegyrics, as you call them, to be just; or finding the same fault with most of my Lord Shaftsbury’s; and you would do neither if you could help it: From mens preferring company to solitude, his Lordship pretends to prove the love and natural affection we have for our own species: If this was examined into with the same strictness as you have done every thing I have said in behalf of the three faculties, I believe that the solidity of the consequences would be pretty equal in both. But I stick to my text, and stand up for the social virtues: The noble author of that system had a most charitable opinion of his species, and extolled the dignity of it in an extraordinary manner, and why my imitation of him should be called a banter, I see no reason. He certainly wrote with a good design, and endeavoured to inspire his readers with refined notions, and a public spirit abstract from religion: The world enjoys the fruits of his labours; but the advantage that is justly expected from his writings, can never be so universally felt, before that public spirit, which he recommended, comes down to the meanest tradesmen, whom you would endeavour to exclude from the generous sentiments and noble pleasures that are already so visible in many. I am now thinking on two sorts of people that stand very much in need of, and yet hardly ever meet with one another: This misfortune must have caused such a chasm in the band of society, that no depth of thought, or happiness of contrivance, could have filled up the vacuity, if a most tender regard for the commonwealth, and the height of benevolence did not influence and oblige others, mere strangers to those people, and commonly men of small education, to afflict them with their good offices, and stop up the gap. Many ingenious workmen, in obscure dwellings, would be starved in spite of industry, only for want of knowing where to sell the product of their labour, if there were not others to dispose of it for them: And again, the rich and extravagant are daily furnished with an infinite variety of superfluous knicknacks and elaborate trifles, every one of them invented to gratify either a needless curiosity, or else wantonness and folly; and which they could never have thought of, much less wanted, had they never seen or known where to buy them. What a blessing, then, to the public, is the social toyman, who lays out a considerable estate to gratify the desires of these two different classes of people? He procures food and raiment for the deserving poor, and searches with great diligence after the most skilful artificers, that no man shall be able to produce better workmanship than himself: with studied civilities, and a serene countenance, he entertains the greatest strangers; and, often speaking to them first, kindly offers to guess at their wants: He confines not his attendance to a few stated hours, but waits their leisure all day long in an open shop, where he bears the summer’s heat, and winter’s cold, with equal cheerfulness. What a beautiful prospect is here of natural affection to our kind! For, if he acts from that principle, who only furnishes us with necessaries of life, certainly he shows a more superlative love and indulgence to his species, who will not suffer the most whimsical of it to be an hour destitute of what he shall fancy, even things the most unnecessary.

Hor. You have made the most of it indeed, but are you not tired yet with these fooleries yourself?

Cleo. What fault do you find with these kind constructions; do they detract from the dignity of our species?

Hor. I admire your invention, and thus much I will own, that, by overacting the part in that extravagant manner, you have set the social system in a more disadvantageous light than ever I had considered it before: But the best things, you know, may be ridiculed.

Cleo. Whether I know that or not, Lord Shaftsbury has flatly denied it; and takes joke and banter to be the best and surest touchstone to prove the worth of things: It is his opinion, that no ridicule can be fastened upon what is really great and good. His Lordship has made use of that test to try the Scriptures and the Christian religion by, and exposed them because it seems they could not stand it.

Hor. He has exposed superstition, and the miserable notions the vulgar were taught to have of God; but no man ever had more sublime ideas of the Supreme Being, and the universe, than himself.

Cleo. You are convinced, that what I charge him with is true.

Hor. I do not pretend to defend every syllable that noble Lord has wrote. His style is engaging, his language is polite, his reasoning strong; many of his thoughts are beautifully expressed, and his images, for the greatest part, inimitably fine. I may be pleased with an author, without obliging myself to answer every cavil that shall be made against him. As to what you call your imitation of him, I have no taste in burlesque: but the laugh you would raise might be turned upon you with less trouble than you seem to have taken. Pray, when you consider the hard and dirty labours that are performed to supply the mob with the vast quantities of strong beer they swill, do not you discover social virtue in a drayman?

Cleo. Yes, and in a dray-horse too; at least as well as I can in some great men, who yet would be very angry should we refuse to believe, that the most selfish actions of theirs, if the society received but the least benefit from them, were chiefly owing to principles of virtue, and a generous regard to the public. Do you believe that, in the choice of a Pope, the greatest dependence of the Cardinals, and what they principally rely upon, is the influence of the Holy Ghost?

Hor. No more than I do transubstantiation.

Cleo. But if you had been brought up a Roman Catholic, you would believe both.

Hor. I do not know that.

Cleo. You would, if you was sincere in your religion, as thousands of them are, that are no more destitute of reason and good sense than you or I.

Hor. I have nothing to say as to that: there are many things incomprehensible, that yet are certainly true: These are properly the objects of faith; and, therefore, when matters are above my capacity, and really surpass my understanding, I am silent, and submit with great humility: but I will swallow nothing which I plainly apprehend to be contrary to my reason, and is directly clashing with my senses.

Cleo. If you believe a Providence, what demonstration can you have, that God does not direct men in an affair of higher importance to all Christendom, than any other you can name?

Hor. This is an ensnaring, and a very unfair question. Providence superintends and governs every thing without exception. To defend my negative, and give a reason for my unbelief, it is sufficient, if I prove, that all the instruments, and the means they make use of in those elections, are visibly human and mundane, and many of them unwarrantable and wicked.

Cleo. Not all the means; because every day they have prayers, and solemnly invoke the Divine assistance.

Hor. But what stress they lay upon it may be easily gathered from the rest of their behaviour. The court of Rome is, without dispute, the greatest academy of refined politics, and the best school to learn the art of caballing: there ordinary cunning, and known stratagems, are counted rusticity, and designs are pursued through all the mazes of human subtlety. Genius there must give way to finesse, as strength does to art in wrestling; and a certain skill some men have in concealing their capacities from others, is of far greater use with them, than real knowledge, or the soundest understanding. In the sacred college, where every thing is auro venale, truth and justice bear the lowest price: Cardinal Palavicini, and other Jesuits, that have been the stanch advocates of the Papal authority, have owned with ostentation the Politia religiosa della chiésa, and not hid from us the virtues and accomplishments, that were only valuable among the Purpurati, in whose judgment over-reaching, at any rate, is the highest honour, and to be outwitted, though by the basest artifice, the greatest shame. In conclaves, more especially, nothing is carried on without tricks and intrigue; and in them the heart of man is so deep, and so dark an abyss, that the finest air of dissimulation is sometimes found to have been insincere, and men often deceive one another, by counterfeiting hypocrisy. And is it credible, that holiness, religion, or the least concern for spirituals, should have any share in the plots, machinations, brigues, and contrivances of a society, of which each member, besides the gratification of his own passions, has nothing at heart but the interest of his party, right or wrong, and to distress every faction that opposes it?

Cleo. These sentiments confirm to me what I have often heard, that renegadoes are the most cruel enemies.

Hor. Was ever I a Roman Catholic?

Cleo. I mean from the social system, of which you have been the most strenuous assertor; and now no man can judge of actions more severely, and indeed less charitably, than yourself, especially of the poor cardinals. I little thought, if once I quitted the scheme of deformity, to have found an adversary in you; but we have both changed sides it seems.

Hor. Much alike, I believe.

Cleo. Nay, what could any body think to hear me making the kindest interpretations of things that can be imagined, and yourself doing quite the reverse?

Hor. What ignorant people, that knew neither of us, might have done, I do not know: but it has been very manifest from our discourse, that you have maintained your cause, by endeavouring to show the absurdity of the contrary side, and that I have defended mine by letting you see, that we were not such fools as you would represent us to be. I had taken a resolution never to engage with you on this topic, but you see I have broke it: I hate to be thought uncivil; it was mere complaisance drew me in; though I am not sorry that we talked of it so much as we did, because I found your opinion less dangerous than 1 imagined: you have owned the existence of virtue, and that there are men who act from it as a principle, both which I thought you denied: but I would not have you flatter yourself that you deceived me, by hanging out false colours.

Cleo. I did not lay on the disguise so thick, as not to have you see through it, nor would I ever have discoursed upon this subject with any body, who could have been so easily imposed upon. I know you to be a man of very good sense and sound judgment; and it is for that very reason I so heartily wish you would suffer me to explain myself, and demonstrate to you, how small the difference is between us, which you imagine to be so considerable: There is not a man in the world, in whose opinion I would less pass for an ill man than in yours; but I am so scrupulously fearful of offending you, that I never dared to touch upon some points, unless you had given me leave. Yield something to our friendship, and condescend for once to read the Fable of the Bees for my sake: It is a handsome volume: you love books: I have one extremely well bound; do; let me, suffer me to make you a present of it.

Hor. I am no bigot, Cleomenes; but I am a man of honour, and, you know, of strict honour: I cannot endure to hear that ridiculed, and the least attempt of it chafes my blood: Honour is the strongest and noblest tie of society by far, and therefore, believe me, can never be innocently sported with. It is a thing so solid and awful, as well as serious, that it can at no time become the object of mirth or diversion; and it is impossible for any pleasantry to be so ingenious, or any jest so witty, that I could bear with it on that head. Perhaps I am singular in this, and, if you will, in the wrong; be that as it will, all I can say is, Je ne’entens pas Raillerie la dessus; and therefore, no Fable of the Bees for me, if we are to remain friends: I have heard enough of that.

Cleo. Pray, Horatio, can there be honour without justice?

Hor. No: Who affirms there can?

Cleo. Have you not owned, that you have thought worse of me, than now you find me to deserve? No men, nor their works, ought to be condemned upon hearsays and bare surmises, much less upon the accusations of their enemies, without being examined into.

Hor. There you are in the right: I heartily beg your pardon, and to atone for the wrong I have done you, say what you please, I will hear it with patience, be it never so shocking; but I beg of you be serious.

Cleo. I have nothing to say to you that is distasteful, much less shocking: all I desire is, to convince you, that I am neither so ill-natured nor uncharitable, in my opinion of mankind, as you take me to be: and that the notions I entertain of the worth of things, will not differ much from yours, when both come to be looked into. Do but consider what we have been doing: I have endeavoured to set every thing in the handsomest light I could think of; you say, to ridicule the social system; I own it; now reflect on your own conduct, which has been to show the folly of my strained panegyrics, and replace things in that natural view, which all just, knowing men would certainly behold them in. This is very well done: but it is contrary to the scheme you pretended to maintain; and if you judge of all actions in the same manner, there is an end of the social system; or, at least, it will be evident, that it is a theory never to be put into practice. You argue for the generality of men, that they are possessed of these virtues, but when we come to particulars, you can find none. I have tried you every where: you are as little satisfied with persons of the highest rank, as you are with them of the lowest, and you count it ridiculous to think better of the middling people. Is this otherwise than standing up for the goodness of a design, at the same time you confess, that it never was, or ever can be executed? What sort of people are they, and where must we look for them, whom you will own to act from those principles of virtue?

Hor. Are there not in all countries men of birth and ample fortune, that would not accept of places, though they were offered, that are generous and beneficent, and mind nothing but what is great and noble?

Cleo. Yes: But examine their conduct, look into their lives, and scan their actions with as little indulgence as you did those of the cardinals, or the lawyers and physicians, and then see what figure their virtues will make beyond those of the poor industrious woman. There is, generally speaking, less truth in panegyrics, than there is in satires. When all our senses are soothed, when we have no distemper of body or mind to disturb us, and meet with nothing that is disagreeable, we are pleased with our being: it is in this situation that we are most apt to mistake outward appearances for realities, and judge of things more favourably than they deserve. Remember, Horatio, how feelingly you spoke half an hour ago in commendation of operas: Your soul seemed to be lifted up whilst you was thinking on the many charms you find in them. I have nothing to say against the elegancy of the diversion, or the politeness of those that frequent them: but I am afraid you lost yourself in the contemplation of the lovely idea, when you asserted that they were the most proper means to contract a strong and lasting habit of virtue; do you think, that among the same number of people, there is more real virtue at an opera, than there is at a bear-garden?

Hor. What a comparison!

Cleo. I am very serious.

Hor. The noise of dogs, and bulls, and bears, make a fine harmony!

Cleo. It is impossible you should mistake me, and you know very well, that it is not the different pleasures of those two places I would compare together. The things you mentioned are the least to be complained of: the continual sounds of oaths and imprecations, the frequent repetitions of the word lie, and other more filthy expressions, the loudness and dissonance of many strained and untuneful voices, are a perfect torment to a delicate ear. The frowsiness of the place, and the ill scents of different kinds, are a perpetual nuisance; but in all mob meetings——

Hor. L’odorat souffre beaucoup.

Cleo. The entertainment in general is abominable, and all the senses suffer. I allow all this. The greasy heads, some of them bloody, the jarring looks, and threatening, wild, and horrid aspects, that one meets with in those ever-restless assemblies, must be very shocking to the sight, and so indeed is every thing else that can be seen among a rude and ragged multitude, that are covered with dirt, and have in none of their pastimes one action that is inoffensive: but, after all, vice and what is criminal, are not to be confounded with roughness and want of manners, no more than politeness and an artful behaviour ought to be with virtue or religion. To tell a premeditated falsehood in order to do mischief, is a greater sin, than to give a man the lie, who speaks an untruth; and it is possible, that a person may suffer greater damage, and more injury to his ruin, from slander in the low whisper of a secret enemy, than he could have received from all the dreadful swearing and cursing, the most noisy antagonist could pelt him with. Incontinence, and adultery itself, persons of quality are not more free from all over Christendom, than the meaner people: but if there are some vices, which the vulgar are more guilty of than the better sort, there are others the reverse. Envy, detraction, and the spirit of revenge, are more raging and mischievous in courts than they are in cottages. Excess of vanity and hurtful ambition are unknown among the poor; they are seldom tainted with avarice, with irreligion never; and they have much less opportunity of robbing the public than their betters. There are few persons of distinction, whom you are not acquainted with: I desire, you would seriously reflect on the lives of as many as you can think of, and next opera night on the virtues of the assembly.

Hor. You make me laugh. There is a good deal in what you say; and I am persuaded, all is not gold that glisters. Would you add any more?

Cleo. Since you have given me leave to talk, and you are such a patient hearer, I would not slip the opportunity of laying before you some things of high concern, that perhaps you never considered in the light, which you shall own yourself they ought to be seen in.

Hor. I am sorry to leave you; but I have really business that must be done to-night: it is about my law-suit, and I have stayed beyond my time already: but if you will come and eat a bit of mutton with me to-morrow, I will see nobody but yourself, and we will converse as long as you please.

Cleo. With all my heart. I will not fail to wait on you.

THE SECOND
DIALOGUE
BETWEEN
HORATIO AND CLEOMENES

HORATIO.

The discourse we had yesterday, has made a great impression upon me; you said several things that were very entertaining, and some which I shall not easily forget: I do not remember I ever looked into myself so much as I have done since last night after I left you.

Cleo. To do that faithfully, is a more difficult and a severer talk than is commonly imagined. When, yesterday, I asked you where and among what sort of people we were to look for those whom you would allow to act from principles of virtue, you named a class, among whom I have found very agreeable characters of men, that yet all have their failings. If these could be left out, and the best were picked and culled from the different good qualities that are to be seen in several, the compound would make a very handsome picture.

Hor. To finish it well every way would be a great masterpiece.

Cleo. That I shall not attempt: but I do not think it would be very difficult to make a little sketch of it, that yet should exceed nature, and be a better pattern for imitation than any can be shown alive. I have a mind to try; the very thought enlivens me. How charming is the portrait of a complete gentleman, and how ravishing is the figure which a person of great birth and fortune, to whom nature has been no niggard, makes, when he understands the world, and is thoroughly well-bred!

Hor. I think them so, I can assure you, whether you are in jest or in earnest.

Cleo. How entirely well hid are his greatest imperfections! though money is his idol, and he is covetous in his heart, yet his inward avarice is forced to give way to his outward liberality, and an open generosity shines through all his actions.

Hor. There lies your fault: it is this I cannot endure in you.

Cleo. What is the matter?

Hor. I know what you are about, you are going to give me the caricatura of a gentleman, under pretence of drawing his portrait.

Cleo. You wrong me, I have no such thought.

Hor. But why is it impossible for human nature ever to be good? instead of leaving out, you put in failings without the least grounds or colour. When things have a handsome appearance every way, what reason have you to suspect them still to be bad? How came you to know, and which way have you discovered imperfections that are entirely well hid; and why should you suppose a person to be covetous in his heart, and that money is his idol, when you own yourself that he never shews it, and that an open generosity shines through all his actions? This is monstrous.

Cleo. I have made no such supposition of any man, and I protest to you, that, in what I said, I had no other meaning than to observe, that whatever frailties and natural infirmities persons might be conscious of within, good sense and good manners were capable, and, without any other assistance, sufficient to keep them out of sight: but your questions are very reasonable, and since you have started this, I will be very open to you, and acquaint you before hand with my design of the description I am going to make; and the use I intend it for; which in short is, to demonstrate to you, that a most beautiful superstructure may be raised upon a rotten and despicable foundation. You will understand me better presently.

Hor. But how do you know a foundation to be rotten that supports the building, and is wholly concealed from you?

Cleo. Have patience, and I promise you, that I shall take nothing for granted, which you shall not allow of yourself.

Hor. Stick close to that, and I desire no more: now say what you will.

Cleo. The true object of pride or vain glory is the opinion of others; and the most superlative wish, which a man possessed, and entirely filled with it can make, is, that he may be well thought of, applauded, and admired by the whole world, not only in the present but all future ages. This passion is generally exploded; but it is incredible, how many strange and widely different miracles are, and may be performed by the force of it; as persons differ in circumstances and inclinations. In the first place, there is no danger so great, but by the help of his pride a man may slight and confront it; nor any manner of death so terrible, but with the same assistance he may court, and if he has a firm constitution, undergo it with alacrity. In the second, there are no good offices or duties, either to others or ourselves, that Cicero has spoke of, nor any instance of benevolence, humanity, or other social virtue, that Lord Shaftsbury has hinted at, but a man of good sense and knowledge may learn to practise them from no better principle than vain glory, if it be strong enough to subdue and keep under all other passions that may thwart and interfere with his design.

Hor. Shall I allow all this?

Cleo. Yes.

Hor. When?

Cleo. Before we part.

Hor. Very well.

Cleo. Men of tolerable parts in plentiful circumstances, that were artfully educated, and are not singular in their temper, can hardly fail of a genteel behaviour: the more pride they have, and the greater value they set on the esteem of others, the more they will make it their study to render themselves acceptable to all they converse with; and they will take uncommon pains to conceal and stifle in their bosoms, every thing which their good sense tells them ought not to be seen or understood.

Hor. I must interrupt you, and cannot suffer you to go on thus. What is all this but the old story over again, that every thing is pride, and all we see hypocrisy, without proof or argument? Nothing in the world is more false than what you have advanced now; for, according to that, the most noble, the most gallant, and the best bred man would be the proudest; which is so clashing with daily experience, that the very reverse is true. Pride and insolence are no where more common than among upstarts; men of no family, that raise estates out of nothing, and the most ordinary people, that having had no education, are puffed up with their fortune whenever they are lifted up above mediocrity, and from mean stations advanced to posts of honour: whereas, no men upon earth, generally speaking, are more courteous, humane, or polite, than persons of high birth, that enjoy the large possessions and known seats of their ancestors; men illustrious by descent, that have been used to grandeur and titles of honour from their infancy, and received an education suitable to their quality. I do not believe there ever was a nation, that were not savages, in which the youth of both sexes were not expressly taught never to be proud or haughty: did you ever know a school, a tutor, or a parent, that did not continually inculcate to those under their care to be civil and obliging; nay, does not the word mannerly itself import as much?

Cleo. I beg of you, let us be calm, and speak with exactness. The doctrine of good manners furnishes us with a thousand lessons, against the various appearances and outward symptoms of pride, but it has not one precept against the passion itself.

Hor. How is that?

Cleo. No, not one against the passion itself; the conquest of it is never attempted, nor talked of in a gentleman’s education, where men are to be continually inspired and kept warm with the sense of their honour, and the inward value they must put upon themselves on all emergencies.

Hor. This is worth consideration, and requires time to be examined into; but where is your fine gentleman, the picture you promised?

Cleo. I am ready, and shall begin with his dwelling: Though he has several noble seats in different countries, yet I shall only take notice of his chief mansion-house that bears the name, and does the honours of the family: this is amply magnificent, and yet, commodious to admiration. His gardens are very extensive, and contain an infinite variety of pleasing objects: they are divided into many branches for divers purposes, and every where filled with improvements of art upon nature; yet a beautiful order and happy contrivance are conspicuous through every part; and though nothing is omitted to render them stately and delightful; the whole is laid out to the best advantage. Within doors, every thing bespeaks the grandeur and judgment of the master; and as no cost is spared any where to procure beauty or conveniency, so you see none impertinently lavished. All his plate and furniture are completely fine, and you see nothing but what is fashionable. He has no pictures but of the most eminent hands: the rarities he shows are really such; he hoards up no trifles, nor offers any thing to your sight that is shocking: but the several collections he has of this sort, are agreeable as well as extraordinary, and rather valuable than large: but curiosities and wealth are not confined to his cabinet; the marble and sculpture that are displayed up and down are a treasure themselves; and there is abundance of admirable gilding and excellent carving to be seen in many places. What has been laid out on the great hall, and one gallery, would be a considerable estate; and there is a salloon and a stair-case not inferior to either; these are all very spacious and lofty; the architecture of them is of the best taste, and the decorations surprising. Throughout the whole there appears a delicate mixture and astonishing variety of lively embellishments, the splendour of which, joined to a perfect cleanliness, no where neglected, are highly entertaining to the most careless and least observing eye; whilst the exactness of the workmanship bestowed on every part of the meanest utensil, gives a more solid satisfaction, and is ravishing to the curious. But the greatest excellency in this model of perfection is this; that as in the most ordinary rooms there is nothing wanting for their purpose, and the least passage is handsomely finished; so in those of the greatest eclat there is nothing overcharged, nor any part of them encumbered with ornaments.

Hor. This is a studied piece; but I do not like it the worse for it, pray go on.

Cleo. I have thought of it before, I own. His equipage is rich and well chosen, and there is nothing to be seen about him that art or expence, within the compass of reason, could make better. At his own table his looks are ever jovial; and his heart seems to be as open as his countenance. His chief business there is to take care of others, without being troublesome; and all his happiness seems to consist in being able to please his friends: in his greatest mirth, he is wanting in respect to no man; and never makes use of abbreviations in names, or unhandsome familiarities with the meanest of his guests. To every one that speaks to him, he gives an obliging attention, and seems never to disregard any thing but what is said in commendation of his fare: he never interrupts any discourse but what is made in his praise, and seldom assents to any encomiums, though the most equitable that are made on any thing that is his. When he is abroad he never spies faults; and whatever is amiss, he either says nothing, or, in answer to the complaints and uneasiness of others, gives every thing the best-natured turn it can bear; but he seldom leaves a house before he finds out something to extol in it, without wronging his judgment. His conversation is always facetious and good-humoured, but as solid as it is diverting. He never utters a syllable that has the least tincture of obscenity or profaneness; nor ever made a jest that was offensive.

Hor. Very fine!

Cleo. He seems to be entirely free from bigotry and superstition, avoids all disputes about religion; but goes constantly to church, and is seldom absent from his family devotions.

Hor. A very godly gentleman!

Cleo. I expected we should differ there.

Hor. I do not find fault. Proceed, pray.

Cleo. As he is a man of erudition himself, so he is a promoter of arts and sciences; he is a friend to merit, a rewarder of industry, and a professed enemy to nothing but immorality and oppression. Though no man’s table is better furnished, nor cellars better stored; he is temperate in his eating, and never commits excess in drinking: though he has an exquisite palate, he always prefers wholesome meats to those that are delicious only, and never indulges his appetite in any thing that might probably be prejudicial to his health.

Hor. Admirably good!

Cleo. As he is in all other things, so he is elegant in his clothes, and has often new ones: neatness he prefers to finery in his own dress; but his retinue is rich. He seldom wears gold or silver himself, but on very solemn occasions, in compliment to others; and to demonstrate that these pompous habits are made for no other purpose, he is never seen twice in the same; but having appeared in them one day, he gives them away the next. Though of every thing he has the best of the sort, and might be called curious in apparel; yet he leaves the care of it to others; and no man has his clothes put on better that seem so little to regard them.

Hor. Perfectly right; to be well dressed is a necessary article, and yet to be solicitous about it is below a person of quality.

Cleo. Therefore he has a domestic of good taste, a judicious man, who saves him that trouble; and the management likewise of his lace and linen, is the province of a skilful woman. His language is courtly, but natural and intelligible; it is neither low nor bombastic, and ever free from pedantic and vulgar expressions. All his motions are genteel without affectation; his mien is rather sedate than airy, and his manner noble: for though he is ever civil and condescending, and no man less arrogant, yet in all his carriage there is something gracefully majestic; and as there is nothing mean in his humility, so his loftiness has nothing disobliging.

Hor. Prodigiously good!

Cleo. He is charitable to the poor; his house is never shut to strangers; and all his neighbours he counts to be his friends. He is a father to his tenants; and looks upon their welfare as inseparable from his interest. No man is less uneasy at little offences, or more ready to forgive all trespasses without design. The injuries that are suffered from other landlords, he turns into benefits; and whatever damages, great or small, are sustained on his account, either from his diversions or otherwise, he doubly makes good. He takes care to be early informed of such losses, and commonly repairs them before they are complained of.

Hor. Oh rare humanity; hearken ye foxhunters!

Cleo. He never chides any of his people; yet no man is better served; and though nothing is wanting in his housekeeping, and his family is very numerous, yet the regularity of it is no less remarkable than the plenty they live in. His orders he will have strictly obeyed; but his commands are always reasonable, and he never speaks to the meanest footman without regard to humanity. Extraordinary diligence in servants, and all laudable actions he takes notice of himself, and often commends them to their faces; but leaves it to his steward to reprove or dismiss those he dislikes.

Hor. Well judged.

Cleo. Whoever lives with him is taken care of in sickness as well as in health. The wages he gives are above double those of other masters; and he often makes presents to those that are more than ordinary observing and industrious to please: but he suffers nobody to take a penny of his friends or others, that come to his house, on any account whatever. Many faults are connived at, or pardoned for the first time, but a breach of this order is ever attended with the loss of their places as soon as it is found out; and there is a premium for the discovery.

Hor. This is the only exceptionable thing, in my opinion, that I have heard yet.

Cleo. I wonder at that: why so, pray?

Hor. In the first place, it is very difficult to enforce obedience to such a command; secondly, if it could be executed, it would be of little use; unless it could be made general, which is impossible: and therefore I look upon the attempt of introducing this maxim to be singular and fantastical. It would please misers and others, that would never follow the example at home; but it would take away from generous men a handsome opportunity of showing their liberal and beneficent disposition: besides, it would manifestly make ones house too open to all sorts of people.

Cleo. Ways might be found to prevent that; but then it would be a blessing, and do great kindness to men of parts and education, that have little to spare, to many of whom this money to servants is a very grievous burden.

Hor. What you mention is the only thing that can be said for it, and I own, of great weight: but I beg your pardon for interrupting you.

Cleo. In all his dealings he is punctual and just. As he has an immense estate, so he has good managers to take care of it: but though all his accounts are very neatly kept, yet he makes it part of his business to look them over himself. He suffers no tradesman’s bill to lie by unexamined; and though he meddles not with his ready cash himself, yet he is a quick and cheerful, as well as an exact paymaster; and the only singularity he is guilty of, is, that he never will owe any thing on a new-year’s day.

Hor. I like that very well.

Cleo. He is affable with discretion, of easy access, and never ruffled with passion. To sum up all, no man seems to be less elevated with his condition than himself; and in the full enjoyment of so many personal accomplishments, as well as other possessions, his modesty is equal to the rest of his happiness; and in the midst of the pomp and distinction he lives in, he never appears to be entertained with his greatness, but rather unacquainted with the things he excels in.

Hor. It is an admirable character, and pleases me exceedingly; but I will freely own to you, that I should have been more highly delighted with the description, if I had not known your design, and the use you intend to make of it; which, I think, is barbarous: to raise so fine, so elegant, and so complete an edifice, in order to throw it down, is taking great pains to show one’s skill in doing mischief. I have observed the several places where you left room for evasions, and lapping the foundation you have built upon. His heart seems to be as open; and he never appears to be entertained with his greatness, I am persuaded, that wherever you have put in this seeming and appearing, you have done it designedly, and with an intent to make use of them as so many back doors to creep out at. I could never have taken notice of these things, if you had not acquainted me with your intention before hand.

Cleo. I have made use of the caution you speak of: but with no other view than to avoid just censure and prevent your accusing me of incorrectness, or judging with too much precipitation; if it should be proved afterwards, that this gentleman had acted from an ill principle, which is the thing I own I purposed to convince you of; but seeing, that it would be unpleasant to you, I will be satisfied with having given you some small entertainment of the description, and for the rest, I give you leave to think me in the wrong.

Hor. Why so? I thought the character was made and contrived on purpose for my instruction.

Cleo. I do not pretend to instruct you: I would have offered something, and appealed to your judgment; but I have been mistaken, and plainly see my error. Both last night and now, when we began our discourse, I took you to be in another disposition of thinking than I perceive you are. You spoke of an impression that had been made upon you, and of looking into yourself, and gave some other hints, which too rashly I misconstrued in my favour; but I have found since, that you are as warm as ever against the sentiments I profess myself to be of; and therefore I will desist. I expect no pleasure from any triumph, and I know nothing that would vex me more, than the thoughts of disobliging you. Pray let us do in this as we do in another matter of importance, never touch upon it: friends in prudence should avoid all subjects in which they are known essentially to differ. Believe me, Horatio, if it was in my power to divert or give you any pleasure, I would grudge no pains to compass that end: but to make you uneasy, is a thing that I shall never be knowingly guilty of, and I beg a thousand pardons for having said so much both yesterday and to-day. Have you heard any thing from Gibraltar?

Hor. I am ashamed of my weakness and your civility: you have not been mistaken in the hints you speak of; what you have said has certainly made a great impression upon me, and I have endeavoured to examine myself: but, as you say, it is a severe task to do it faithfully. I desired you to dine with me on purpose, that we might talk of these things. It is I that have offended, and it is I that ought to ask pardon for the ill manners I have been guilty of; but you know the principles I have always adhered to; it is impossible to recede from them at once. I see great difficulties, and now and then a glimpse of truth, that makes me start: I sometimes feel great struggles within; but I have been so used to derive all actions that are really good from laudable motives, that as soon as I return to my accustomed way of thinking, it carries all before it. Pray bear with my infirmities. I am in love with your fine gentleman, and I confess, I cannot see how a person so universally good, so far remote from all selfishness, can act in such an extraordinary manner every way, but from principles of virtue and religion. Where is there such a landlord in the world? If I am in an error, I shall be glad to be undeceived. Pray inform me, and say what you will, I promise you to keep my temper, and I beg of you speak your mind with freedom.

Cleo. You have bid me before say what I would, and when I did, you seemed displeased; but since you command me I will try once more.——Whether there is or ever was such a man as I have described, in the world, is not very material: but I will easily allow, that most people would think it less difficult to conceive one, than to imagine that such a clear and beautiful stream could flow from so mean and muddy a spring, as an excessive thirst after praise, and an immoderate desire of general applause from the most knowing judges; yet it is certain, that great parts and extraordinary riches may compass all this in a man, who is not deformed, and has had a refined education; and that there are many persons naturally no better than a thousand others, who by the helps mentioned, might attain to those good qualities and accomplishments, if they had but resolution and perseverance enough, to render every appetite and every faculty subservient to that one predominant passion, which, if continually gratified, will always enable them to govern, and, if required, to subdue all the rest without exception, even in the most difficult cases.

Hor. To enter into an argument concerning the possibility of what you say, might occasion a long dispute; but the probability, I think, is very clear against you, and if there was such a man, it would be much more credible, that he acted from the excellency of his nature, in which so many virtues and rare endowments were assembled, than that all his good qualities sprung from vicious motives. If pride could be the cause of all this, the effect of it would sometimes appear in others. According to your system, there is no scarcity of it, and there are men of great parts and prodigious estates all over Europe: why are there not several such patterns to be seen up and down, as you have drawn as one; and why is it so very seldom, that many virtues and good qualities are seen to meet in one individual?

Cleo. Why so few persons, though there are so many men of immense fortune, ever arrive at any thing like this high pitch of accomplishments; there are several reasons that are very obvious. In the first place, men differ in temperament: some are naturally of an active, stirring; others of an indolent, quiet disposition; some of a bold, others of a meek spirit. In the second, it is to be considered, that this temperament in men come to maturity is more or less conspicuous, according as it has been either checked or encouraged by education. Thirdly, that on these two depend the different perception men have of happiness, according to which the love of glory determines them different ways. Some think it the greatest felicity to govern and rule over others: some take the praise of bravery and undauntedness in dangers to be the most valuable: others, erudition, and to be a celebrated author: so that, though they all love glory, they set out differently to acquire it. But a man who hates a bustle, and is naturally of a quiet easy temper, and which has been encouraged in him by education, it is very likely might think nothing more desirable than the character of a fine gentleman; and if he did, I dare say that he would endeavour to behave himself pretty near the pattern I have given you; I say pretty near, because I may have been mistaken in some things, and as I have not touched upon every thing, some will say, that I have left out several necessary ones: but in the main I believe, that in the country and age we live in, the qualifications I have named would get a man the reputation I have supposed him to desire.

Hor. Without doubt, I make no manner of scruple about what you said last; and I told you before that it was an admirable character, and pleased me exceedingly. That I took notice of your making your gentleman so very godly as you did, was because it is not common; but I intended it not as a reflection. One thing, indeed, there was in which I differed from you; but that was merely speculative; and, since I have reflected on what you have answered me, I do not know but I may be in the wrong, as I should certainly believe myself to be, if there really was such a man, and he was of the contrary opinion: to such a fine genius I would pay an uncommon deference, and with great readiness submit my understanding to his superior capacity. But the reasons you give why those effects which you ascribe to pride, are not more common, the cause being so universal, I think are insufficient. That men are prompted to follow different ends, as their inclinations differ, I can easily allow; but there are great numbers of rich men that are likewise of a quiet and indolent disposition, and moreover very desirous of being thought fine gentlemen. How comes it, that among so many persons of high birth, princely estates, and the most refined education, as there are in Christendom, that study, travel, and take great pains to be well accomplished, there is not one, to whom all the good qualities, and every thing you named, could be applied without flattery?

Cleo. It is very possible that thousands may aim at this, and not one of them succeed to that degree: in some, perhaps the predominant passion is not strong enough entirely to subdue the rest: love or covetousness may divert others: drinking, gaming, may draw away many, and break in upon their resolution; they may not have strength to persevere in a design, and steadily to pursue the same ends; or they may want a true taste or knowledge of what is esteemed by men of judgment; or, lastly, they may not be so thoroughly well-bred, as is required to conceal themselves on all emergencies: for the practical part of dissimulation is infinitely more difficult than the theory: and any one of these obstacles is sufficient to spoil all, and hinder the finishing of such a piece.

Hor. I shall not dispute that with you: but all this while you have proved nothing; nor given the least reason why you should imagine, that a man of a character, to all outward appearance so bright and beautiful, acted from vicious motives. You would not condemn him without so much as naming the cause why you suspect him.

Cleo. By no means; nor have I advanced any thing that is ill natured or uncharitable: for I have not said, that if I found a gentleman in possession of all the things I mentioned, I would give his rare endowments this turn, and think all his perfections derived from no better stock, than an extraordinary love of glory. What I argue for, and insist upon, is, the possibility that all these things might be performed by a man from no other views, and with no other helps, than those I have named: nay, I believe moreover, that a gentleman so accomplished, all his knowledge and great parts notwithstanding, may himself be ignorant, or at least not well assured of the motive he acts from.

Hor. This is more unintelligible than any thing you have said yet; why will you heap difficulties upon one another, without solving any? I desire you would clear up this last paradox, before you do any thing else.

Cleo. In order to obey you, I must put you in mind of what happens in early education, by the first rudiments of which, infants are taught in the choice of actions to prefer the precepts of others to the dictates of their own inclinations; which, in short, is no more than doing as they are bid. To gain this point, punishments and rewards are not neglected, and many different methods are made use of; but it is certain, that nothing proves more often effectual for this purpose, or has a greater influence upon children, than the handle that is made of shame; which, though a natural passion, they would not be sensible of so soon, if we did not artfully rouse and stir it up in them, before they can speak or go: by which means, their judgment being then weak, we may teach them to be ashamed of what we please, as soon as we can perceive them to be any ways affected with the passion itself: but as the fear of shame is very insignificant, where there is but little pride, so it is impossible to augment the first, without increasing the latter in the same proportion.

Hor. I should have thought that this increase of pride would render children more stubborn and less docile.

Cleo. You judge right; it would so, and must have been a great hinderance to good manners, till experience taught men, that though pride was not to be destroyed by force, it might be governed by stratagem, and that the best way to manage it, is by playing the passion against itself. Hence it is, that in an artful education, we are allowed to place as much pride as we please in our dexterity of concealing it. I do not suppose, that this covering ourselves, notwithstanding the pride we take in it, is performed without a difficulty that is plainly felt, and perhaps very unpleasant at first; but this wears off as we grow up; and when a man has behaved himself with so much prudence as I have described, lived up to the strictest rules of good-breeding for many years, and has gained the esteem of all that know him, when this noble and polite manner is become habitual to him, it is possible he may in time forget the principle he set out with, and become ignorant, or at least insensible of the hidden spring that gives life and motion to all his actions.

Hor. I am convinced of the great use that may be made of pride, if you will call it so; but I am not satisfied yet, how a man of so much sense, knowledge, and penetration, one that understands himself so entirely well, should be ignorant of his own heart, and the motives he acts from. What is it that induces you to believe this, besides the possibility of his forgetfulness?

Cleo. I have two reasons for it, which I desire may be seriously considered. The first is, that in what relates to ourselves, especially our own worth and excellency, pride blinds the understanding in men of sense and great parts as well as in others, and the greater value we may reasonably set upon ourselves, the fitter we are to swallow the grossest flatteries, in spite of all our knowledge and abilities in other matters: witness Alexander the Great, whose vast genius could not hinder him from doubting seriously, whether he was a god or not. My second reason will prove to us, that if the person in question was capable of examining himself, it is yet highly improbable, that he would ever set about it: for, it must be granted, that, in order to search into ourselves, it is required we should be willing as well as able; and we have all the reason in the world to think, that there is nothing which a very proud man of such high qualifications would avoid more carefully than such an inquiry: because, for all other acts of self-denial, he is repaid in his darling passion; but this alone is really mortifying, and the only sacrifice of his quiet for which he can have no equivalent. If the hearts of the best and sincerest men are corrupt and deceitful, what condition must theirs be in, whose whole life is one continued scene of hypocrisy! therefore inquiring within, and boldly searching into ones own bosom, must be the most shocking employment, that a man can give his mind to, whose greatest pleasure consists in secretly admiring himself. It would be ill manners, after this, to appeal to yourself; but the severity of the task——

Hor. Say no more, I yield this point, though I own I cannot conceive what advantage you can expect from it: for, instead of removing, it will rather help to increase the grand difficulty, which is to prove, that this complete person you have described, acts from a vicious motive: and if that be not your design, I cannot see what you drive at.

Cleo. I told you it was.

Hor. You must have a prodigious sagacity in detecting abstruse matters before other men.

Cleo. You wonder, I know, which way I arrogate to myself such a superlative degree of penetration, as to know an artful cunning man better than he does himself, and how I dare pretend to enter and look into a heart, which I have owned to be completely well concealed from all the world; which in strictness is an impossibility, and consequently not to be bragged of but by a coxcomb.

Hor. You may treat yourself as you please, I have said no such thing; but I own that I long to see it proved, that you have this capacity. I remember the character very well: Notwithstanding the precautions you have taken, it is very full: I told you before, that where things have a handsome appearance every way, there can be no just cause to suspect them. I will stick close to that; your gentleman is all of a piece: You shall alter nothing, either by retracting any of the good qualities you have given him, or making additions that are either clashing with, or unsuitable to what you have allowed already.

Cleo. I shall attempt neither: And without that decisive trials may be made, by which it will plainly appear whether a person acts from inward goodness, and a principle of religion, or only from a motive of vain glory; and, in the latter case, there is an infallible way of dragging the lurking fiend from his darkest recesses into a glaring light, where all the world shall know him.

Hor. I do not think myself a match for you in argument; but I have a great mind to be your gentleman’s advocate against all your infallibility: I never liked a cause better in my life. Come, I undertake to defend him in all the suppositions you can make that are reasonable and consistent with what you have said before.

Cleo. Very well: let us suppose what may happen to the most inoffensive, the most prudent, and best-bred man; that our fine gentleman differs in opinion before company, with another, who is his equal in birth and quality, but not so much master over his outward behaviour, and less guarded in his conduct; let this adversary, mal á propos, grow warm, and seem to be wanting in the respect that is due to the other, and reflect on his honour in ambiguous terms. What is your client to do?

Hor. Immediately to ask for an explanation.

Cleo. Which, if the hot man disregards with scorn, or flatly refuses to give, satisfaction must be demanded, and tilt they must.

Hor. You are too hasty: it happened before company; in such cases, friends, or any gentlemen present, should interpose and take care, that if threatening words ensue, they are, by the civil authority, both put under arrest; and before they came to uncourteous language, they ought to have been parted by friendly force, if it were possible. After that, overtures may be made of reconciliation with the nicest regard to the point of honour.

Cleo. I do not ask for directions to prevent a quarrel; what you say may be done, or it may not be done: The good offices of friends may succeed, and they may not succeed. I am to make what suppositions I think fit within the verge of possibility, so they are reasonable and consistent with the character I have drawn: can we not suppose these two persons in such a situation that you yourself would advise your friend to send his adversary a challenge?

Hor. Without doubt such a thing may happen.

Cleo. That is enough. After that a duel must ensue, in which, without determining any thing, the fine gentleman, we will say, behaves himself with the utmost gallantry.

Hor. To have suspected or supposed otherwise would have been unreasonable.

Cleo. You see, therefore, how fair I am. But what is it, pray, that so suddenly disposes a courteous sweet-tempered man, for so small an evil, to seek a remedy of that extreme violence? But above all, what is it that buoys up and supports him against the fear of death? for there lies the greatest difficulty.

Hor. His natural courage and intrepidity, built on the innocence of his life, and the rectitude of his manners.

Cleo. But what makes so just and prudent a man, that has the good of society so much at heart, act knowingly against the laws of his country?

Hor. The strict obedience he pays to the laws of honour, which are superior to all others.

Cleo. If men of honour would act confidently, they ought all to be Roman Catholics.

Hor. Why, pray?

Cleo. Because they prefer oral tradition to all written laws: for nobody can tell when, in what king’s or emperor’s reign, in what country, or by what authority these laws of honour were first enacted: it is very strange they should be of such force.

Hor. They are wrote and engraved in every ones breast that is a man of honour: there is no denying of it; you are conscious of it yourself; every body feels it within.

Cleo. Let them be wrote or engraved wherever you please, they are directly opposite to and clashing with the laws of God; and if the gentleman I described was as sincere in his religion as he appeared to be, he must have been of an opinion contrary to yours; for Christians of all persuasions are unanimous in allowing the divine laws to be far above all other; and that all other considerations ought to give way to them. How, and under what pretence can a Christian, who is a man of sense, submit or agree to laws that prescribe revenge, and countenance murder; both which are so expressly forbid by the precepts of his religion?

Hor. I am no casuist: but you know, that what I say is true; and that, among persons of honour, a man would be laughed at, that should make such a scruple. Not but that I think killing a man to be a great sin, where it can be helped; and that all prudent men ought to avoid the occasion, as much as it is in their power. He is highly blameable who is the first aggressor, and gives the affront; and whoever enters upon it out of levity, or seeks a quarrel out of wantonness, ought to be hanged. Nobody would choose it, who is not a fool; and yet, when it is forced upon one, all the wisdom in the world cannot teach him how to avoid it. It has been my case you know: I shall never forget the reluctancy I had against it; but necessity has no law.

Cleo. I saw you that very morning, and you seemed to be sedate and void of passion: you could have no concern.

Hor. It is silly to show any at such times; but I know best what I felt; the struggle I had within was unspeakable: it is a terrible thing. I would then have given a considerable part of my estate, that the thing which forced me into it had not happened; and yet, upon less provocation, I would act the same part again to-morrow.

Cleo. Do you remember what your concern was chiefly about?

Hor. How can you ask? It is an affair of the highest importance that can occur in life; I was no boy; it was after we came from Italy; I was in my nine and twentieth year, had very good acquaintance, and was not ill received: a man of that age, in health and vigour, who has seven thousand a-year, and the prospect of being a peer of England, has no reason to quarrel with the world, or wish himself out of it. It is a very great hazard a man runs in a duel; besides the remorse and uneasiness one must feel as long as he lives, if he has the misfortune of killing his adversary. It is impossible to reflect on all these things, and at the same time resolve to run those hazards (though there are other considerations of still greater moment), without being under a prodigious concern.

Cleo. You say nothing about the sin.

Hor. The thoughts of that, without doubt, are a great addition; but the other things are so weighty of themselves, that a man’s condition at such a time, is very perplexed without further reflection.

Cleo. You have now a very fine opportunity, Horatio, of looking into your heart, and with a little of my assistance, examining yourself. If you can condescend to this, I promise you that you shall make great discoveries, and be convinced of truths you are now unwilling to believe. A lover of justice and probity, as you are, ought not to be fond of a road of thinking, where he is always forced to skulk, and never dares to meet with light or reason. Will you suffer me to ask you some questions, and will you answer them directly and in good humour?

Hor. I will, without reserve.

Cleo. Do you remember the storm upon the coast of Genoa?

Hor. Going to Naples? Very well; it makes me cold to think of it.

Cleo. Was you afraid?

Hor. Never more in my life: I hate that fickle element; I cannot endure the sea.

Cleo. What was you afraid of?

Hor. That is a pretty question: do you think a young fellow of six-and-twenty, as I was then, and in my circumstances, had a great mind to be drowned? The captain himself said we were in danger.

Cleo. But neither he nor any body else discovered half so much fear and anxiety as you did.

Hor. There was nobody there, yourself excepted, that had half a quarter so much to lose as I had: besides, they are used to the sea; storms are familiar to them. I had never been at sea before, but that fine afternoon we crossed from Dover to Calais.

Cleo. Want of knowledge or experience may make men apprehend danger where there is none; but real dangers, when they are known to be such, try the natural courage of all men; whether they have been used to them or not: sailors are as unwilling to lose their lives as other people.

Hor. I am not ashamed to own, that I am a great coward at sea: give me terra firma, and then—

Cleo. Six or seven months after you fought that duel, I remember you had the small-pox; you was then very much afraid of dying.

Hor. Not without a cause.

Cleo. I heard your physicians say, that the violent apprehension you was under, hindered your sleep, increased your fever, and was as mischievous to you as the distemper itself.

Hor. That was a terrible time; I am glad it is over: I had a sister died of it. Before I had it, I was in perpetual dread of it, and many times to hear it named only has made me uneasy.

Cleo. Natural courage is a general armour against the fear of death, whatever shape that appears in, Si fractus illabatur erbis. It supports a man in tempestuous seas, and in a burning fever, whilst he is in his senses, as well as in a siege before a town, or in a duel with seconds.

Hor. What! you are going to show me, that I have no courage.

Cleo. Far from it; it would be ridiculous to doubt a man’s bravery, that has shown it in such an extraordinary manner as you have done more than once: what I question, is the epithet you joined to it at first, the word natural; for there is a great difference between that and artificial courage.

Hor. That is a chicane I will not enter into: but I am not of your opinion, as to what you said before. A gentleman is not required to show his bravery, but where his honour is concerned; and if he dares to fight for his king, his friend, his mistress, and every thing where his reputation is engaged, you shall think of him what you please for the rest. Besides, that in sickness and other dangers, as well as afflictions, where the hand of God is plainly to be seen, courage and intrepidity are impious as well as impertinent. Undauntedness in chastisements is a kind of rebellion: it is waging war with Heaven, which none but atheists and freethinkers would be guilty of; it is only they that can glory in impenitence, and talk of dying hard. All others that have any sense of religion, desire to repent before they go out of the world: the best of us do not always live, as we could wish to die.

Cleo. I am very glad to hear you are so religious: but do not you perceive yet, how inconsistent you are with yourself: how can a man sincerely wish to repent, that wilfully plunges himself into a mortal sin, and an action where he runs a greater and more immediate hazard of his life, than he could have done in almost any other, without force or necessity?

Hor. I have over and over owned to you that duelling is a sin; and, unless a man is forced to it by necessity, I believe, a mortal one: but this was not my case, and therefore I hope God will forgive me: let them look to it that make a sport of it. But when a man comes to an action with the utmost reluctancy, and what he does is not possibly to be avoided, I think he then may justly be said to be forced to it, and to act from necessity. You may blame the rigorous laws of honour, and the tyranny of custom, but a man that will live in the world must, and is bound to obey them. Would not you do it yourself?

Cleo. Do not ask me what I would do: the question is, what every body ought to do. Can a man believe the Bible, and at the same time apprehend a tyrant more crafty or malicious, more unrelenting or inhuman than the devil, or a mischief worse than hell, and pains either more exquisite or more durable than torments unspeakable and yet everlasting? You do not answer. What evil is it? Think of it, and tell me what dismal thing it is you apprehend, should you neglect these laws, and despise that tyrant: what calamity could befall you? Let me know the worst that can be feared.

Hor. Would you be posted for a coward?

Cleo. For what? For not daring to violate all human and divine laws?

Hor. Strictly speaking you are in the right, it is unanswerable; but who will consider things in that light?

Cleo. All good Christians.

Hor. Where are they then? For all mankind in general would despise and laugh at a man, who should move those scruples. I have heard and seen clergymen themselves in company show their contempt of poltrons, whatever they might talk or recommend in the pulpit. Entirely to quit the world, and at once to renounce the conversation of all persons that are valuable in it, is a terrible thing to resolve upon. Would you become a town and table-talk? Could you submit to be the jest and scorn of public-houses, stage-coaches, and market-places? Is not this the certain fate of a man, who should refuse to fight, or bear an affront without resentment? be just, Cleomenes; is it to be avoided? Must he not be made a common laughing-stock, be pointed at in the streets, and serve for diversion to the very children; to link-boys and hackney-coachmen? Is it a thought to be born with patience?

Cleo. How come you now to have such an anxious regard for what may be the opinion of the vulgar, whom at other times you so heartily despise?

Hor. All this is reasoning, and you know the thing will not bear it: how can you be so cruel?

Cleo. How can you be so backward in discovering and owning the passion, that is so conspicuously the occasion of all this, the palpable and only cause of the uneasiness we feel at the thoughts of being despised?

Hor. I am not sensible of any; and I declare to you, that I feel nothing that moves me to speak as I do, but the sense and principle of honour within me.

Cleo. Do you think that the lowest of the mob, and the scum of the people, are possessed of any part of this principle?

Hor. No, indeed.

Cleo. Or that among the highest quality, infants can be affected with it before they are two years old?

Hor. Ridiculous.

Cleo. If neither of these are affected with it, then honour should be either adventitious, and acquired by culture; or, if contained in the blood of those that are nobly born, imperceptible until the years of discretion; and neither of them can be said of the principle, the palpable cause I speak of. For we plainly see on the one hand, that scorn and ridicule are intolerable to the poorest wretches, and that there is no beggar so mean or miserable, that contempt will never offend him: on the other, that human creatures are so early influenced by the sense of shame; that children, by being laughed at and made a jest of, may be set a crying before they can well speak or go. Whatever, therefore, this mighty principle is, it is born with us, and belongs to our nature: are you unacquainted with the proper, genuine, homely name of it?

Hor. I know you call it pride. I will not dispute with you about principles and origins of things; but that high value which men of honour set upon themselves as such, and which is no more than what is due to the dignity of our nature, when well cultivated, is the foundation of their character, and a support to them in all difficulties, that is of great use to the society. The desire, likewise, of being thought well of, and the love of praise and even of glory are commendable qualities, that are beneficial to the public. The truth of this is manifest in the reverse; all shameless people that are below infamy, and matter not what is said or thought of them, these, we see nobody can trust; they stick at nothing, and if they can but avoid death, pain, and penal laws, are always ready to execute all manner of mischief, their selfishness or any brutal appetite shall prompt them to, without regard to the opinion of others: such are justly called men of no principles, because they have nothing of any strength within, that can either spur them on to brave and virtuous actions, or restrain them from villany and baseness.

Cleo. The first part of your assertion is very true, when that high value, that desire, and that love are kept within the bounds of reason: But, in the second, there is a mistake; those whom we call shameless, are not more destitute of pride, than their betters. Remember what I have said of education, and the power of it; you may add inclinations, knowledge, and circumstances; for, as men differ in all these, so they are differently influenced and wrought upon by all the passions. There is nothing that some men may not be taught to be ashamed of. The same passion that makes the well-bred man, and prudent officer, value and secretly admire themselves for the honour and fidelity they display, may make the rake and scoundrel brag of their vices, and boast of their impudence.

Hor. I cannot comprehend, how a man of honour, and one that has none, should both act from the same principle.

Cleo. This is not more strange, than that self-love may make a man destroy himself, yet nothing is more true; and it is as certain, that some men indulge their pride in being shameless. To understand human nature, requires study and application, as well as penetration and sagacity. All passions and instincts in general, were given to all animals for some wise end, tending to the preservation and happiness of themselves, or their species: It is our duty to hinder them from being detrimental or offensive to any part of the society; but why should we be ashamed of having them? The instinct of high value, which every individual has for himself, is a very useful passion: but a passion it is, and though I could demonstrate, that we should be miserable creatures without it, yet, when it is excessive, it often is the cause of endless mischiefs.

Hor. But in well-bred people it never is excessive.

Cleo. You mean the excess of it never appears outwardly: But we ought never to judge of its height or strength from what we can discover of the passion itself, but from the effects it produces: It often is most superlative, where it is most concealed; and nothing increases and influences it more, than what is called a refined education, and a continual commerce with the beau monde: The only thing that can subdue, or any ways curb it, is a strict adherence to the Christian religion.

Hor. Why do you so much insist upon it, that this principle, this value men set upon themselves, is a passion? And why will you choose to call it pride rather than honour?

Cleo. For very good reasons. Fixing this principle in human nature, in the first place, takes away all ambiguity: Who is a man of honour, and who is not, is often a disputable point; and, among those that are allowed to be such, the several degrees of strictness, in complying with the rules of it, make great difference in the principle itself. But a passion that is born with us is unalterable, and part of our frame, whether it exerts itself or not: The essence of it is the same, which way soever it is taught to turn. Honour is the undoubted offspring of pride, but the same cause produces not always the same effect. All the vulgar, children, savages, and many others that are not affected with any sense of honour, have all of them pride, as is evident from the symptoms. Secondly, it helps us to explain the phenomena that occur in quarrels and affronts, and the behaviour of men of honour on these occasions, which cannot be accounted for any other way. But what moves me to it most of all, is the prodigious force and exorbitant power of this principle of self esteem, where it has been long gratified and encouraged. You remember the concern you was under, when you had that duel upon your hands, and the great reluctancy you felt in doing what you did; you knew it to be a crime, and, at the same time, had a strong aversion to it; what secret power was it that subdued your will, and gained the victory over that great reluctancy you felt against it? You call it honour, and the too strict, though unavoidable adherence to the rules of it: But men never commit violence upon themselves, but in struggling with the passions that are innate and natural to them. Honour is acquired, and the rules of it are taught: Nothing adventitious, that some are possessed, and others destitute of, could raise such intestine wars and dire commotions within us; and therefore, whatever is the cause that can thus divide us against ourselves, and, as it were, rend human nature in twain, must be part of us; and, to speak without disguise, the struggle in your breast was between the fear of shame and the fear of death: had this latter not been so considerable, your struggle would have been less: Still the first conquered, because it was strongest; but if your fear of shame had been inferior to that of death, you would have reasoned otherwise, and found out some means or other to have avoided fighting.

Hor. This is a strange anatomy of human nature.

Cleo. Yet, for want of making use of it, the subject we are upon is not rightly understood by many; and men have discoursed very inconsistently on duelling. A divine who wrote a dialogue to explode that practice, said, that those who were guilty of it, had mistaken notions of, and went by false rules of honour; for which my friend justly ridiculed him, saying, You may as well deny, that it is the fashion what you see every body wear, as to say, that demanding and giving satisfaction, is against the laws of true honour. Had that man understood human nature, he could not have committed such a blunder: But when once he took it for granted, that honour is a just and good principle, without inquiring into the cause of it among the passions, it is impossible he should have accounted for duelling, in a Christian pretending to act from such a principle; and therefore, in another place, with the same justice, he said, that a man who had accepted a challenge was not qualified to make his will, because he was not compos mentis: He might, with greater show of reason, have said, that he was bewitched.

Hor. Why so?

Cleo. Because people out of their wits, as they think at random, so commonly they act and talk incoherently; but when a man of known sobriety, and who shows no manner of discomposure, discourses and behaves himself in every thing, as he is used to do; and, moreover, reasons on points of great nicety with the utmost accuracy, it is impossible we should take him to be either a fool or a madman; and when such a person, in an affair of the highest importance, acts so diametrically against his interest, that a child can see it, and with deliberation pursues his own destruction, those who believe that there are malignant spirits of that power, would rather imagine that he was led away by some enchantment, and over-ruled by the enemy of mankind, than they would fancy a palpable absurdity: But even the supposition of that is not sufficient to solve the difficulty, without the help of that strange anatomy. For what spell or witchcraft is there, by the delusion of which a man of understanding shall, keeping his senses, mistake an imaginary duty for an unavoidable necessity to break all real obligations? But let us wave all ties of religion, as well as human laws, and the person we speak of to be a professed Epicure, that has no thoughts of futurity; what violent power of darkness is it, that can force and compel a peaceable quiet man, neither inured to hardship, nor valiant by nature, to quit his beloved ease and security; and seemingly by choice go fight in cold blood for his life, with this comfortable reflection, that nothing forfeits it so certainly as the entire defeat of his enemy?

Hor. As to the law and the punishment, persons of quality have little to fear of that.

Cleo. You cannot say that in France, nor the Seven Provinces. But men of honour, that are of much lower ranks, decline duelling no more than those of the highest quality. How many examples have we, even here, of gallant men, that have suffered for it either by exile or the hangman! A man of honour must fear nothing: Do but consider every obstacle which this principle of self-esteem has conquered at one time or other; and then tell me whether it must not be something more than magic, by the fascination of which a man of taste and judgment, in health and vigour, as well as the flower of his age, can be tempted, and actually drawn from the embraces of a wife he loves, and the endearments of hopeful children, from polite conversation and the charms of friendship, from the fairest possessions and the happy enjoyment of all worldly pleasures, to an unwarrantable combat, of which the victor must be exposed either to an ignominious death, or perpetual banishment.

Hor. When things are set in this light, I confess it is very unaccountable: but will your system explain this; can you make it clear yourself?

Cleo. Immediately, as the sun: If you will but observe two things, that must necessarily follow, and are manifest from what I have demonstrated already. The first is, that the fear of shame, in general, is a matter of caprice, that varies with modes and customs, and may be fixed on different objects, according to the different lessons we have received, and the precepts we are imbued with; and that this is the reason, why this fear of shame, as it is either well or ill placed, sometimes produces very good effects, and at others is the cause of the most enormous crimes. Secondly, that, though shame is a real passion, the evil to be feared from it is altogether imaginary, and has no existence but in our own reflection on the opinion of others.

Hor. But there are real and substantial mischiefs which a man may draw upon himself, by misbehaving in point of honour; it may ruin his fortune, and all hopes of preferment: An officer may be broken for putting up an affront: Nobody will serve with a coward, and who will employ him?

Cleo. What you urge is altogether out of the question; at least it was in your own case; you had nothing to dread or apprehend but the bare opinion of men. Besides, when the fear of shame is superior to that of death, it is likewise superior to, and outweighs all other considerations; as has been sufficiently proved: But when the fear of shame is not violent enough to curb the fear of death, nothing else can; and whenever the fear of death is stronger than that of shame, there is no consideration that will make a man fight in cold blood, or comply with any of the laws of honour, where life is at stake. Therefore, whoever acts from the fear of shame as a motive, in sending and accepting of challenges, must be sensible, on the one hand, that the mischiefs he apprehends, should he disobey the tyrant, can only be the offspring of his own thoughts; and, on the other, that if he could be persuaded anywise to lessen the great esteem and high value he sets upon himself, his dread of shame would likewise palpably diminish. From all which, it is most evident, that the grand cause of this distraction, the powerful enchanter we are seeking after, is pride, excess of pride, that highest pitch of self-esteem, to which some men may be wound up by an artful education, and the perpetual flatteries bestowed upon our species, and the excellencies of our nature. This is the sorcerer, that is able to divert all other passions from their natural objects, and make a rational creature ashamed of what is most agreeable to his inclination, as well as his duty; both which the duellist owns, that he has knowingly acted against.

Hor. What a wonderful machine, what an heterogenous compound is man! You have almost conquered me.

Cleo. I aim at no victory, all I wish for is to do you service, in undeceiving you.

Hor. What is the reason that, in the same person, the fear of death should be so glaringly conspicuous in sickness, or a storm, and so entirely well hid in a duel, and all military engagements? Pray, solve that too.

Cleo. I will as well as I can: On all emergencies, where reputation is thought to be concerned, the fear of shame is effectually roused in men of honour, and immediately their pride rushes in to their assistance, and summons all their strength to fortify and support them in concealing the fear of death; by which extraordinary efforts, the latter, that is the fear of death, is altogether stifled, or, at least, kept out of sight, and remains undiscovered. But in all other perils, in which they do not think their honour engaged, their pride lies dormant. And thus the fear of death, being checked by nothing, appears without disguise. That this is the true reason, is manifest from the different behaviour that is observed in men of honour, according as they are either pretenders to Christianity; or tainted with irreligion; for there are of both sorts; and you shall see, most commonly at least, that your esprits forts, and those who would be thought to disbelieve a future state (I speak of men of honour), show the greatest calmness and intrepidity in the same dangers, where the pretended believers among them, appear to be the most ruffled and pusillanimous.

Hor. But why pretended believers? at that rate there are no Christians among the men of honour.

Cleo. I do not see how they can be real believers.

Hor. Why so?

Cleo. For the same reason that a Roman Catholic cannot be a good subject, always to be depended upon, in a Protestant, or indeed any other country, but the dominions of his Holiness. No sovereign can confide with safety in a man’s allegiance, who owns and pays homage to another superior power upon earth. I am sure you understand me.

Hor. Too well.

Cleo. You may yoke a knight with a prebendary, and put them together into the same stall; but honour, and the Christian religion, make no couple, nec in unâ sede morantur, any more than majesty and love. Look back on your own conduct, and you shall find, that what you said of the hand of God was only a shift, an evasion you made to serve your then present purpose. On another occasion, you had said yesterday yourself, that Providence superintends and governs every thing without exception; you must, therefore, have known, that the hand of God is as much to be seen in one common accident in life, and in one misfortune, as it is in another, that is not more extraordinary. A severe fit of sickness may be less fatal, than a slight skirmish between two hostile parties; and, among men of honour, there is often as much danger in a quarrel about nothing, as there can be in the most violent storm. It is impossible, therefore, that a man of sense, who has a solid principle to go by, should, in one sort of danger, think it impiety not to show fear, and in another be ashamed to be thought to have any. Do but consider your own inconsistency with yourself. At one time, to justify your fear of death, when pride is absent, you become religious on a sudden, and your conscience then is so tenderly scrupulous, that, to be undaunted under chastisements from the Almighty, seems no less to you than waging war with Heaven; and, at another, when honour calls, you dare not knowingly and willingly break the most positive command of God, but likewise to own, that the greatest calamity which, in your opinion, can befal you, is, that the world should believe, or but suspect of you, that you had any scruple about it. I defy the wit of man to carry the affront to the Divine Majesty higher. Barely to deny his being, is not half so daring, as it is to do this after you have owned him to exist. No Atheism——

Hor. Hold, Cleomenes; I can no longer resist the force of truth, and I am resolved to be better acquainted with myself for the future. Let me become your pupil.

Cleo. Do not banter me, Horatio; I do not pretend to instruct a man of your knowledge; but if you will take my advice, search into yourself with care and boldness, and, at your leisure, peruse the book I recommended.

Hor. I promise you I will, and shall be glad to accept of the handsome present I refused: Pray, send a servant with it to-morrow morning.

Cleo. It is a trifle. You had better let one of yours go with me now; I shall drive home directly.

Hor. I understand your scruple. It shall be as you please.

THE THIRD
DIALOGUE
BETWEEN
HORATIO AND CLEOMENES.

HORATIO.

I thank you for your book.

Cleo. Your acceptance of it I acknowledge as a great favour.

Hor. I confess, that once I thought nobody could have persuaded me to read it; but you managed me very skilfully, and nothing could have convinced me so well as the instance of duelling: The argument, à majori ad minus, struck me, without your mentioning it. A passion that can subdue the fear of death, may blind a man’s understanding, and do almost every thing else.

Cleo. It is incredible what strange, various, unaccountable, and contradictory forms we may be shaped into by a passion, that is not to be gratified without being concealed, and never enjoyed with greater ecstacy than when we are most fully persuaded, that it is well hid: and therefore, there is no benevolence or good nature, no amiable quality or social virtue, that may not be counterfeited by it; and, in short, no achievement, good or bad, that the human body or mind are capable of, which it may not seem to perform. As to its blinding and infatuating the persons possessed with it to a high degree, there is no doubt of it: for what strength of reason, I pray, what judgment or penetration, has the greatest genius, if he pretends to any religion, to boast of, after he has owned himself to have been more terrified by groundless apprehensions, and an imaginary evil from vain impotent men, whom he has never injured, than he was alarmed with the just fears of a real punishment from an all-wise and omnipotent God, whom he has highly offended?

Hor. But your friend makes no such religious reflections: he actually speaks in favour of duelling.

Cleo. What, because he would have the laws against it as severe as possible, and nobody pardoned, without exception, that offends that way?

Hor. That indeed seems to discourage it; but he shows the necessity of keeping up that custom, to polish and brighten society in general.

Cleo. Do not you see the irony there?

Hor. No, indeed: he plainly demonstrates the usefulness of it, gives as good reasons as it is possible to invent, and shows how much conversation would suffer, if that practice was abolished.

Cleo. Can you think a man serious on a subject, when he leaves it in the manner he does?

Hor. I do not remember that.

Cleo. Here is the book: I will look for the passage——Pray, read this.

Hor. It is strange, that a nation should grudge to see, perhaps, half a dozen men sacrificed in a twelvemonth, to obtain so valuable a blessing, as the politeness of manners, the pleasure of conversation, and the happiness of company in general, that is often so willing to expose, and sometimes loses as many thousands in a few hours, without knowing whether it will do any good or not. This, indeed, seems to be said with a sneer: but in what goes before he is very serious.

Cleo. He is so, when he says that the practice of duelling, that is the keeping up of the fashion of it, contributes to the politeness of manners and pleasure of conversation, and this is very true; but that politeness itself, and that pleasure, are the things he laughs at and exposes throughout his book.

Hor. But who knows, what to make of a man, who recommends a thing very seriously in one page, and ridicules it in the next?

Cleo. It is his opinion, that there is no solid principle to go by but the Christian religion, and that few embrace it with sincerity: always look upon him in this view, and you will never find him inconsistent with himself. Whenever at first sight he seems to be so, look again, and upon nearer inquiry you will find, that he is only pointing at, or labouring to detect the inconsistency of others with the principles they pretend to.

Hor. He seems to have nothing less at heart than religion.

Cleo. That is true, and if he had appeared otherwise, he would never have been read by the people whom he designed his book for, the modern deists and all the beau monde: It is those he wants to come at. To the first he sets forth the origin and insufficiency of virtue, and their own insincerity in the practice of it: to the rest he shows the folly of vice and pleasure, the vanity of worldly greatness, and the hypocrisy of all those divines, who, pretending to preach the gospel, give and take allowances that are inconsistent with, and quite contrary to the precepts of it.

Hor. But this is not the opinion the world has of the book; it is commonly imagined, that it is wrote for the encouragement of vice, and to debauch the nation.

Cleo. Have you found any such thing in it?

Hor. To speak my conscience, I must confess, I have not: vice is exposed in it, and laughed at; but it ridicules war and martial courage, as well as honour and every thing else.

Cleo. Pardon me, religion is ridiculed in no part of it.

Hor. But if it is a good book, why then are so many of the clergy so much against it as they are?

Cleo. For the reason I have given you: my friend has exposed their lives, but he has done it in such a manner, that nobody can say he has wronged them, or treated them harshly. People are never more vexed, than when the thing that offends them, is what they must not complain of: they give the book an ill name because they are angry; but it is not their interest, to tell you the the true reason why they are so. I could draw you a parallel case that would clear up this matter, if you would have patience to hear me, which, as you are a great admirer of operas, I can hardly expect.

Hor. Any thing to be informed.

Cleo. I always had such an aversion to eunuchs, as no fine singing or acting of any of them has yet been able to conquer; when I hear a feminine voice, I look for a petticoat; and I perfectly loath the sight of those sexless animals. Suppose that a man with the same dislike to them had wit at will, and a mind to lash that abominable piece of luxury, by which men are taught in cold blood to spoil males for diversion, and out of wantonness to make waste of their own species. In order to this, we will say, he takes a handle from the operation itself; he describes and treats it in the most inoffensive manner; then shows the narrow bounds of human knowledge, and the small assistance we can have, either from dissection or philosophy, or any part of the mathematics, to trace and penetrate into the cause à priori, why this destroying of manhood should have that surprising effect upon the voice; and afterwards demonstrates, how sure we are à posteriori, that it has a considerable influence, not only on the pharinx, the glands and muscles of the throat, but likewise the windpipe, and the lungs themselves, and in short on the whole mass of blood, consequently all the juices of the body, and every fibre in it. He might say likewise, that no honey, no preparations of sugar, raisins, or spermaceti; no emulsions, lozenges or other medicines, cooling or balsamic; no bleeding, no temperance or choice in eatables; no abstinence from women, from wine, and every thing that is hot, sharp or spirituous, were of that efficacy to preserve, sweeten, and strengthen the voice; he might insist upon it, that nothing could do this so effectually as castration. For a blind to his main scope, and to amuse his readers, he might speak of this practice, as made use of for other purposes; that it had been inflicted as a solemn punishment for analogous crimes; that others had voluntarily submitted to it, to preserve health and prolong life; whilst the Romans, by Cæsar’s testimony, thought it more cruel than death, morte gravius. How it had been used sometimes by way of revenge; and then say something in pity of poor Abelard; at other times for precaution; and then relate the story of Combabus and Stratonice: with scraps from Martial, Juvenal, and other poets, he might interlard it, and from a thousand pleasant things that have been said on the subject, he might pick out the most diverting to embellish the whole. His design being satire, he would blame our fondness for these castrati, and ridicule the age in which a brave English nobleman and a general officer, serves his country at the hazard of his life, a whole twelvemonth, for less pay than an Italian no-man of scoundrel extraction receives, for now and then singing a song in great safety, during only the winter-season. He would laugh at the caresses and the court that are made to them by persons of the first quality, who prostitute their familiarity with these most abject wretches, and misplace the honour and civilities only due to their equals, on things that are no part of the creation, and owe their being to the surgeon; animals so contemptible, that they can curse their maker without ingratitude. If he should call this book, the Eunuch is the Man; as soon as I heard the title, before I saw the book, I should understand by it, that eunuchs were now esteemed, that they were in fashion and in the public favour, and considering that a eunuch is in reality not a man, I should think it was a banter upon eunuchs, or a satire against those, who had a greater value for them than they deserved. But if the gentlemen of the academy of music, displeased at the freedom they were treated with, should take it ill, that a paultry scribbler should interfere and pretend to censure their diversion, as well as they might; if they should be very angry, and study to do him a mischief, and accordingly, not having much to say in behalf of eunuchs, not touch upon any thing the author had said against their pleasure, but represent him to the world as an advocate for castration, and endeavour to draw the public odium upon him by quotations taken from him proper for that purpose, it would not be difficult to raise a clamour against the author, or find a grand jury to present his book.

Hor. The simile holds very well as to the injustice of the accusation, and the insincerity of the complaint; but is it as true, that luxury will render a nation flourishing, and that private vices are public benefits, as that castration preserves and strengthens the voice?

Cleo. With the restrictions my friend requires, I believe it is, and the cases are exactly alike. Nothing is more effectual to preserve, mend, and strengthen a fine voice in youth than castration: the question is not, whether this is true, but whether it is eligible; whether a fine voice is an equivalent for the loss, and whether a man would prefer the satisfaction of singing, and the advantages that may accrue from it, to the comforts of marriage, and the pleasure of posterity, of which enjoyments it destroys the possibility. In like manner, my friend demonstrates, in the first place, that the national happiness which the generality wish and pray for, is wealth and power, glory and worldly greatness; to live in ease, in affluence and splendour at home, and to be feared, courted, and esteemed abroad: in the second, that such a felicity is not to be attained to without avarice, profuseness, pride, envy, ambition, and other vices. The latter being made evident beyond contradiction, the question is not, whether it is true, but whether this happiness is worth having at the rate it is only to be had at, and whether any thing ought to be wished for, which a nation cannot enjoy, unless the generality of them are vicious. This he offers to the consideration of Christians, and men who pretend to have renounced the world, with all the pomp and vanity of it.

Hor. How does it appear that the author addresses himself to such?

Cleo. From his writing it in English, and publishing it in London. But have you read it through yet?

Hor. Twice: there are many things I like very well, but I am not pleased with the whole.

Cleo. What objection have you against it?

Hor. It has diminished the pleasure I had in reading a much better book. Lord Shaftsbury is my favourite author: I can take delight in enthusiasm; but the charms of it cease as soon as I am told what it is I enjoy. Since we are such odd creatures, why should we not make the most of it?

Cleo. I thought you was resolved to be better acquainted with yourself, and to search into your heart with care and boldness.

Hor. That is a cruel thing; I tried it three times since I saw you last, till it put me into a sweat, and then I was forced to leave off.

Cleo. You should try again, and use yourself by degrees to think abstractly, and then the book will be a great help to you.

Hor. To confound me it will: it makes a jest of all politeness and good manners.

Cleo. Excuse me, Sir, it only tells us, what they are.

Hor. It tells us, that all good manners consist in flattering the pride of others, and concealing our own. Is not that a horrid thing?

Cleo. But is it not true?

Hor. As soon as I had read that passage, it struck me: down I laid the book, and tried in above fifty instances, sometimes of civility, and sometimes of ill manners, whether it would answer or not, and I profess that it held good in every one.

Cleo. And so it would if you tried till doomsday.

Hor. But is not that provoking? I would give a hundred guineas with all my heart, that I did not know it. I cannot endure to see so much of my own nakedness.

Cleo. I never met with such an open enmity to truth in a man of honour before.

Hor. You shall be as severe upon me as you please; what I say is fact. But since I am got in so far, I must go through with it now: there are fifty things that I want to be informed about.

Cleo. Name them, pray; if I can be of any service to you, I shall reckon it as a great honour; I am perfectly well acquainted with the author’s sentiments.

Hor. I have twenty questions to ask about pride, and I do not know where to begin. There is another thing I do not understand; which is, that there can be no virtue without self-denial.

Cleo. This was the opinion of all the ancients. Lord Shaftsbury was the first that maintained the contrary.

Hor. But are there no persons in the world that are good by choice?

Cleo. Yes; but then they are directed in that choice by reason and experience, and not by nature, I mean, not by untaught nature: but there is an ambiguity in the word good which I would avoid; let us stick to that of virtuous, and then I affirm, that no action is such, which does not suppose and point at some conquest or other, some victory great or small over untaught nature; otherwise the epithet is improper.

Hor. But if by the help of a careful education, this victory is obtained, when we are young, may we not be virtuous afterwards voluntarily and with pleasure?

Cleo. Yes, if it really was obtained: but how shall we be sure of this, and what reason have we to believe that it ever was? when it is evident, that from our infancy, instead of endeavouring to conquer our appetites, we have always been taught, and have taken pains ourselves to conceal them; and we are conscious within, that whatever alterations have been made in our manners and our circumstances, the passions themselves always remained? The system that virtue requires to self-denial, is, as my friend has justly observed, a vast inlet to hypocrisy: it will, on all accounts, furnish men with a more obvious handle, and a greater opportunity of counterfeiting the love of society, and regard to the public, than ever they could have received from the contrary doctrine, viz. that there is no merit but in the conquest of the passions, nor any virtue without apparent self-denial. Let us ask those that have had long experience, and are well skilled in human affairs, whether they have found the generality of men such impartial judges of themselves, as never to think better of their own worth than it deserved, or so candid in the acknowledgment of their hidden faults and slips, they could never be convinced of, that there is no fear they should ever stifle or deny them. Where is the man that has at no time covered his failings, and screened himself with false appearances, or never pretended to act from principles of social virtue, and his regard to others, when he knew in his heart that his greatest care had been to oblige himself? The best of us sometimes receive applause without undeceiving those who give it; though, at the same time, we are conscious that the actions, for which we suffer ourselves to be thought well of, are the result of a powerful frailty in our nature, that has often been prejudicial to us, and which we have wished a thousand times in vain, that we could have conquered. The same motives may produce very different actions, as men differ in temper and circumstances. Persons of an easy fortune may appear virtuous, from the same turn of mind that would show their frailty if they were poor. I£ we would know the world, we must look into it. You take no delight in the occurrences of low life; but if we always remain among persons of quality, and extend our inquiries no farther, the transactions there will not furnish us with a sufficient knowledge of every thing that belongs to our nature. There are, among the middling people, men of low circumstances, tolerably well educated, that set out with the same stock of virtues and vices, and though equally qualified, meet with very different success; visibly owing to the difference in their temper. Let us take a view of two persons bred to the same business, that have nothing but their parts and the world before them, launching out with the same helps and disadvantages: let there be no difference between them, but in their temper; the one active, and the other indolent. The latter will never get an estate by his own industry, though his profession be gainful, and himself master of it. Chance, or some uncommon accident, may be the occasion of great alterations in him, but without that he will hardly ever raise himself to mediocrity. Unless his pride affects him in an extraordinary manner, he must always be poor, and nothing but some share of vanity can hinder him from being despicably so. If he be a man of sense, he will be strictly honest, and a middling stock of covetousness will never divert him from it. In the active stirring man, that is easily reconciled to the bustle of the world, we shall discover quite different symptoms, under the same circumstances; and a very little avarice will egg him on to pursue his aim with eagerness and assiduity: small scruples are no opposition to him; where sincerity will not serve, he uses artifice; and in compassing his ends, the greatest use he will make of his good sense will be, to preserve as much as is possible, the appearance of honesty; when his interest obliges him to deviate from it. To get wealth, or even a livelihood by arts and sciences, it is not sufficient to understand them: it is a duty incumbent on all men, who have their maintenance to seek, to make known and forward themselves in the world, as far as decency allows of, without bragging of themselves, or doing prejudice to others: here the indolent man is very deficient and wanting to himself; but seldom will own his fault, and often blames the public for not making use of him, and encouraging that merit, which they never were acquainted with, and himself perhaps took pleasure to conceal; and though you convince him of his error, and that he has neglected even the most warrantable methods of soliciting employment, he will endeavour to colour over his frailty with the appearance of virtue; and what is altogether owing to his too easy temper, and an excessive fondness for the calmness of his mind, he will ascribe to his modesty and the great aversion he has to impudence and boasting. The man of a contrary temper trusts not to his merit only, or the setting it off to the best advantage; he takes pains to heighten it in the opinion of others, and make his abilities seem greater than he knows them to be. As it is counted folly for a man to proclaim his own excellencies, and speak magnificently of himself, so his chief business is to seek acquaintance, and make friends on purpose to do it for him: all other passions he sacrifices to his ambition; he laughs at disappointments, is inured to refusals, and no repulse dismays him: this renders the whole man always flexible to his interest; he can defraud his body of necessaries, and allow no tranquillity to his mind; and counterfeit, if it will serve his turn, temperance, chastity, compassion, and piety itself, without one grain of virtue or religion: his endeavours to advance his fortune per fas et nefas are always restless, and have no bounds, but where he is obliged to act openly, and has reason to fear the censure of the world. It is very diverting to see how, in the different persons I speak of, natural temper will warp and model the very passions to its own bias: pride, for example, has not the same, but almost a quite contrary effect on the one to what it has on the other: the stirring active man it makes in love with finery, clothes, furniture, equipages, building, and every thing his superiors enjoy: the other it renders sullen, and perhaps morose; and if he has wit, prone to satire, though he be otherwise a good-natured man. Self-love, in every individual, ever bestirs itself in soothing and flattering the darling inclination; always turning from us the dismal side of the prospect; and the indolent man in such circumstances, finding nothing pleasing without, turns his view inward upon himself; and there, looking on every thing with great indulgence, admires and takes delight in his own parts, whether natural or acquired: hence he is easily induced to despise all others who have not the same good qualifications, especially the powerful, and wealthy, whom yet he never hates or envies with any violence; because that would ruffle his temper. All things that are difficult he looks upon as impossible, which makes him despair of meliorating his condition; and as he has no possessions, and his gettings will but just maintain him in a low station of life, so his good sense, if he would enjoy so much as the appearance of happiness, must necessarily put him upon two things; to be frugal, and pretend to have no value for riches; for, by neglecting either, he must be blown up, and his frailty unavoidably discovered.

Hor. I am pleased with your observations, and the knowledge you display of mankind; but pray, is not the frugality you now speak of a virtue?

Cleo. I think not.

Hor. Where there is but a small income, frugality is built upon reason; and in this case there is an apparent self-denial, without which an indolent man that has no value for money cannot be frugal; and we see indolent men, that have no regard for wealth, reduced to beggary, as it often happens, it is most commonly for want of this virtue.

Cleo. I told you before, that the indolent man, setting out as he did, would be poor; and that nothing but some share of vanity could hinder him from being despicably so. A strong fear of shame may gain so much upon the indolence of a man of sense, that he will bestir himself sufficiently to escape contempt; but it will hardly make him do any more; therefore he embraces frugality, as being instrumental and assisting to him in procuring his summum bonum, the darling quiet of his easy mind; whereas, the active man, with the same share of vanity, would do any thing rather than submit to the same frugality, unless his avarice forced him to it. Frugality is no virtue, when it is imposed upon us by any of the passions, and the contempt of riches is seldom sincere. I have known men of plentiful estates, that, on account of posterity, or other warrantable views of employing their money, were saving, and more penurious, than they would have been, if their wealth had been greater: but I never yet found a frugal man, without avarice or necessity. And again, there are innumerable spendthrifts, lavish and extravagant to a high degree, who seem not to have the least regard to money, whilst they have any to fling away: but these wretches are the least capable of bearing poverty of any, and the money once gone, hourly discover how uneasy, impatient, and miserable they are without it. But what several in all ages have made pretence to, the contempt of riches, is more scarce than is commonly imagined. To see a man of a very good estate, in health and strength of body and mind, one that has no reason to complain of the world or fortune, actually despise both, and embrace a voluntary poverty, for a laudable purpose, is a great rarity. I know but one in all antiquity, to whom all this may be applied with strictness of truth.

Hor. Who is that, pray?

Cleo. Anaxagoras of Clazomene in Ionia: He was very rich, of noble extraction, and admired for his great capacity: he divided and gave away his estate among his relations, and refused to meddle with the administration of public affairs that was offered him, for no other reason, than that he might have leisure for contemplation of the works of nature, and the study of philosophy.

Hor. To me it seems to be more difficult to be virtuous without money, than with: it is senseless for a man to be poor, when he can help it, and if I saw any body choose it, when he might as lawfully be rich, I would think him to be distracted.

Cleo. But you would not think him so, if you saw him sell his estate, and give the money to the poor: you know where that was required.

Hor. It is not required of us.

Cleo. Perhaps not: but what say you to renouncing the world, and the solemn promise we have made of it?

Hor. In a literal sense that is impossible, unless we go out of it; and therefore I do not think, that to renounce the world signifies any more, than not to comply with the vicious, wicked part of it.

Cleo. I did not expect a more rigid construction from you, though it is certain, that wealth and power are great snares, and strong impediments to all Christian virtue: but the generality of mankind, that have any thing to lose, are of your opinion; and let us bar saints and madmen, we shall find every where, that those who pretend to undervalue, and are always haranguing against wealth, are generally poor and indolent. But who can blame them? They act in their own defence; nobody that could help it would ever be laughed at; for it must be owned, that of all the hardships of poverty, it is that which is the most intolerable.

Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se,

Quam quod ridiculos homines faciat.——

In the very satisfaction that is enjoyed by those who excel in, or are possessed of things valuable, there is interwoven a spice of contempt for others, that are destitute of them, which nothing keeps from public view, but a mixture of pity and good manners. Whoever denies this, let them consult within, and examine whether it is not the same with happiness, as what Seneca says of the reverse, nemo est miser nisi comparatus. The contempt and ridicule I speak of, is, without doubt, what all men of sense and education endeavour to avoid or disappoint. Now, look upon the behaviour of the two contrary tempers before us, and mind how differently they set about this talk, every one suitably to his own inclination. The man of action, you see, leaves no stone unturned to acquire quod oportet habere: but this is impossible for the indolent; he cannot stir; his idol ties him down hand and foot; and, therefore, the easiest, and, indeed the only thing he has left, is to quarrel with the world, and find out arguments to depreciate what others value themselves upon.

Hor. I now plainly see, how pride and good sense must put an indolent man, that is poor, upon frugality; and likewise the reason, why they will make him affect to be content, and seem pleased with his low condition: for, if he will not be frugal, want and misery are at the door: and if he shows any fondness for riches, or a more ample way of living, he loses the only plea he has for his darling frailty, and immediately he will be asked, why he does not exert himself in a better manner? and he will be continually told of the opportunities he neglects.

Cleo. It is evident, then, that the true reasons, why men speak against things, are not always writ upon their foreheads.

Hor. But after all this quiet easy temper, this indolence you talk of, is it not what, in plain English, we call laziness?

Cleo. Not at all; it implies no sloth, or aversion to labour: an indolent man may be very diligent, though he cannot be industrious: he will take up with things below him, if they come in his way; he will work in a garret, or any where else, remote from public view, with patience and assiduity, but he knows not how to solicit and teaze others to employ him, or demand his due of a shuffling, designing master, that is either difficult of access, or tenacious of his money: if he be a man of letters, he will study hard for a livelihood, but generally parts with his labours at a disadvantage, and will knowingly sell them at an under-rate to an obscure man, who offers to purchase, rather than bear the insults of haughty booksellers, and be plagued with the sordid language of the trade. An indolent man may, by chance, meet with a person of quality, that takes a fancy to him; but he will never get a patron by his own address; neither will he ever be the better for it, when he has one, further than the unasked-for bounty, and downright generosity of his benefactor make him. As he speaks for himself with reluctancy, and is always afraid of asking favours, so, for benefits received, he shows no other gratitude, than what the natural emotions of his heart suggest to him. The striving, active man studies all the winning ways to ingratiate himself, and hunts after patrons with design and sagacity: whilst they are beneficial to him; he affects a perpetual sense of thankfulness; but all his acknowledgments of past obligations, he turns into solicitations for fresh favours: his complaisance may be engaging, and his flattery ingenious, but the heart is untouched: he has neither leisure, nor the power to love his benefactors: the eldest he has, he will always sacrifice to a new one; and he has no other esteem for the fortune, the greatness, or the credit of a patron, than as he can make them subservient either to raise or maintain his own. From all this, and a little attention on human affairs, we may easily perceive, in the first place, that the man of action, and an enterprising temper, in following the dictates of his nature, must meet with more rubs and obstacles infinitely, than the indolent, and a multitude of strong temptations, to deviate from the rules of strict virtue, which hardly ever come in the other’s way; that, in many circumstances, he will be forced to commit such actions, for which, all his skill and prudence notwithstanding, he will, by some body or other, deservedly be thought to be an ill man; and that to end with a tolerable reputation, after a long course of life, he must have had a great deal of good fortune, as well as cunning. Secondly, that the indolent man may indulge his inclinations, and be as sensual as his circumstances may let him, with little offence or disturbance to his neighbour; that the excessive value he sets upon the tranquillity of his mind, and the grand aversion he has to part with it, must prove a strong curb to every passion, that comes uppermost; none of which, by this means, can ever affect him in any high degree, and consequently, that the corruption of his heart remaining, he may, with little art and no great trouble, acquire many valuable qualities, that shall have all the appearances of social virtues, whilst nothing extraordinary befals him. As to his contempt of the world, the indolent man perhaps will scorn to make his court, and cringe to a haughty favourite, that will browbeat him at first; but he will run with joy to a rich nobleman, that he is sure will receive him with kindness and humanity: With him he will partake, without reluctancy, of all the elegant comforts of life that are offered, the most expensive not excepted. Would you try him further, confer upon him honour and wealth in abundance. If this change in his fortune stirs up no vice that lay dormant before, as it may by rendering him either covetous or extravagant, he will soon conform himself to the fashionable world: Perhaps he will be a kind master, an indulgent father, a benevolent neighbour, munificent to merit that pleases him, a patron to virtue, and a wellwisher to his country; but for the rest, he will take all the pleasure he is capable of enjoying; stifle no passion he can calmly gratify, and, in the midst of a luxuriant plenty, laugh heartily at frugality, and the contempt of riches and greatness he professed in his poverty; and cheerfully own the futility of those pretences.

Hor. I am convinced, that, in the opinion of virtue’s requiring self-denial, there is greater certainty, and hypocrites have less latitude than in the contrary system.

Cleo. Whoever follows his own inclinations, be they never so kind, beneficent, or human, never quarrel with any vice, but what is clashing with his temperament and nature; whereas those who act from a principle of virtue, take always reason for their guide, and combat, without exception, every passion that hinders them from their duty! The indolent man will never deny a just debt; but, if it be large, he will not give himself the trouble which, poor as he is, he might, and ought to take to discharge it, or, at least, satisfy his creditors, unless he is often dunned, or threatened to be sued for it. He will not be a litigious neighbour, nor make mischief among his acquaintance; but he will never serve his friend or his country, at the expence of his quiet. He will not be rapacious, oppress the poor, or commit vile actions for lucre; but then he will never exert himself, and be at the pains another would take on all opportunities, to maintain a large family, make provision for children, and promote his kindred and relations; and his darling frailty will incapacitate him from doing a thousand things for the benefit of the society, which, with the same parts and opportunities, he might, and would have done, had he been of another temper.

Hor. Your observations are very curious, and, as far as I can judge from what I have seen myself, very just and natural.

Cleo. Every body knows that there is no virtue so often counterfeited as charity, and yet so little regard have the generality of men to truth, that how gross and bare-faced soever the deceit is in pretences of this nature, the world never fails of being angry with, and hating those who detect or take notice of the fraud. It is possible, that, with blind fortune on his side, a mean shopkeeper, by driving a trade prejudicial to his country on the one hand, and grinding, on all occasions, the face of the poor on the other, may accumulate great wealth; which, in process of time, by continual scraping, and sordid saving, may be raised into an exorbitant, an unheard-of estate for a tradesman. Should such a one, when old and decrepit, lay out the greatest part of his immense riches in the building, or largely endowing an hospital, and I was thoroughly acquainted with his temper and manners, I could have no opinion of his virtue, though he parted with the money, whilst he was yet alive; more especially, if I was assured, that, in his last will, he had been highly unjust, and had not only left unrewarded several, whom he had great obligations to, but likewise defrauded others, to whom, in his conscience, he knew that he was, and would die actually indebted. I desire you to tell me what name, knowing all I have said to be true, you would give to this extraordinary gift, this mighty donation!

Hor. I am of opinion, than when an action of our neighbour may admit of different constructions, it is our duty to side with, and embrace the most favourable.

Cleo. The most favourable constructions with all my heart: But what is that to the purpose, when all the straining in the world cannot make it a good one? I do not mean the thing itself, but the principle it came from, the inward motive of the mind that put him upon performing it; for it is that which, in a free agent, I call the action: And, therefore, call it what you please, and judge as charitably of it as you can, what can you say of it?

Hor. He might have had several motives, which I do not pretend to determine; but it is an admirable contrivance of being extremely beneficial to all posterity in this land, a noble provision that will perpetually relieve, and be an unspeakable comfort to a multitude of miserable people; and it is not only a prodigious, but likewise a well-concerted bounty that was wanting, and for which, in after ages, thousands of poor wretches will have reason to bless his memory, when every body else shall have neglected them.

Cleo. All that I have nothing against; and if you would add more, I shall not dispute it with you, as long as you confine your praises to the endowment itself, and the benefit the public is like to receive from it. But to ascribe it to, or suggest that it was derived from a public spirit in the man, a generous sense of humanity and benevolence to his kind, a liberal heart, or any other virtue or good quality, which it is manifest the donor was an utter stranger to, is the utmost absurdity in an intelligent creature, and can proceed from no other cause than either a wilful wronging of his own understanding, or else ignorance and folly.

Hor. I am persuaded, that many actions are put off for virtuous, that are not so; and that according as men differ in natural temper, and turn of mind, so they are differently influenced by the same passions: I believe likewise, that these last are born with us, and belong to our nature; that some of them are in us, or at least the seeds of them, before we perceive them: but since they are in every individual, how comes it that pride is more predominant in some than it is in others? For from what you have demonstrated already, it must follow, that one person is more affected with the passion within than another; I mean, that one man has actually a greater share of pride than another, as well among the artful that are dexterous in concealing it, as among the ill-bred that openly show it.

Cleo. What belongs to our nature, all men may justly be said to have actually or virtually in them at their birth; and whatever is not born with us, either the thing itself, or that which afterwards produces it, cannot be said to belong to our nature: but as we differ in our faces and stature, so we do in other things, that are more remote from sight: but all these depend only upon the different frame, the inward formation of either the solids or the fluids; and there are vices of complexion, that are peculiar, some to the pale and phlegmatic, others to the sanguine and choleric: some are more lustful, others more fearful in their nature, than the generality are: but I believe of man, generally speaking, what my friend has observed of other creatures, that the best of the kind, I mean the best formed within, such as have the finest natural parts, are born with the greatest aptitude to be proud; but I am convinced, that the difference there is in men, as to the degrees of their pride, is more owing to circumstances and education, than any thing in their formation. Where passions are most gratified and least controlled, the indulgence makes them stronger; whereas those persons, that have been kept under, and whose thoughts have never been at liberty to rove beyond the first necessaries of life; such as have not been suffered, or had no opportunity to gratify this passion, have commonly the least share of it. But whatever portion of pride a man may feel in his heart, the quicker his parts are, the better his understanding is; and the more experience he has, the more plainly he will perceive the aversion which all men have to those that discover their pride: and the sooner persons are imbued with good manners, the sooner they grow perfect in concealing that passion. Men of mean birth and education, that have been kept in great subjection, and consequently had no great opportunities to exert their pride, if ever they come to command others, have a sort of revenge mixed with that passion, which makes it often very mischievous, especially in places where they have no superiors or equals, before whom they are obliged to conceal the odious passion.

Hor. Do you think women have more pride from nature than men?

Cleo. I believe not: but they have a great deal more from education.

Hor. I do not see the reason: for among the better sort, the sons, especially the eldest, have as many ornaments and fine things given them from their infancy, to stir up their pride, as the daughters.

Cleo. But among people equally well-educated, the ladies have more flattery bestowed upon them, than the gentlemen, and it begins sooner.

Hor. But why should pride be more encouraged in women than in men?

Cleo. For the same reason, that it is encouraged in soldiers, more than it is in other people; to increase their fear of shame, which makes them always mindful of their honour.

Hor. But to keep both to their respective duties, why must a lady have more pride than a gentleman?

Cleo. Because the lady is in the greatest danger of straying from it; she has a passion within, that may begin to affect her at twelve, or thirteen, and perhaps sooner, and she has all the temptations of the men to withstand besides: she has all the artillery of our sex to fear; a seducer of uncommon address and resistless charms, may court her to what nature prompts and solicits her to do; he may add great promises, actual bribes; this may be done in the dark, and when nobody is by dissuade her. Gentlemen very seldom have occasion to show their courage before they are sixteen or seventeen years of age, and rarely so soon: they are not put to the trial, till, by conversing with men of honour, they are confirmed in their pride: in the affair of a quarrel they have their friends to consult, and these are so many witnesses of their behaviour, that awe them to their duty, and in a manner oblige them to obey the laws of honour: all these things conspire to increase their fear of shame; and if they can but render that superior to the fear of death, their business is done; they have no pleasure to expect from breaking the rules of honour, nor any crafty tempter that solicits them to be cowards. That pride which is the cause of honour in men, only regards their courage; and if they can but appear to be brave, and will but follow the fashionable rules of manly honour, they may indulge all other appetites, and brag of incontinence without reproach: the pride likewise that produces honour in women, has no other object than their chastity; and whilst they keep that jewel entire, they can apprehend no shame: tenderness and delicacy are a compliment to them; and there is no fear of danger so ridiculous, but they may own it with ostentation. But notwithstanding the weakness of their frame, and the softness in which women are generally educated, if overcome by chance they have sinned in private, what real hazards will they not run, what torments will they not stifle, and what crimes will they not commit, to hide from the world that frailty, which they were taught to be most ashamed of!

Hor. It is certain, that we seldom hear of public prostitutes, and such as have lost their shame, that they murder their infants, though they are otherwise the most abandoned wretches: I took notice of this in the Fable of the Bees, and it is very remarkable.

Cleo. It contains a plain demonstration, that the same passion may produce either a palpable good or a palpable evil in the same person, according as self-love and his present circumstances shall direct; and that the same fear of shame, that makes men sometimes appear so highly virtuous, may at others oblige them to commit the most heinous crimes: that, therefore, honour is not founded upon any principle, either of real virtue or true religion, must be obvious to all that will but mind what sort of people they are, that are the greatest votaries of that idol, and the different duties it requires in the two sexes: in the first place, the worshippers of honour are the vain and voluptuous, the strict observers of modes and fashions, that take delight in pomp and luxury, and enjoy as much of the world as they are able: in the second, the word itself, I mean the sense of it, is so whimsical, and there is such a prodigious difference in the signification of it, according as the attribute is differently applied, either to a man or to a woman, that neither of them shall forfeit their honour, though each should be guilty, and openly boast of what would be the others greatest shame.

Hor. I am sorry that I cannot charge you with injustice: but it is very strange; that to encourage and industriously increase pride in a refined education, should be the most proper means to make men solicitous in concealing the outward appearances of it.

Cleo. Yet nothing is more true; but where pride is so much indulged, and yet to be so carefully kept from all human view, as it is in persons of honour of both sexes, it would be impossible for mortal strength to endure the restraint, if men could not be taught to play the passion against itself, and were not allowed to change the natural home-bred symptoms of it, for artificial foreign ones.

Hor. By playing the passion against itself, I know you mean placing a secret pride in concealing the barefaced signs of it: but I do not rightly understand what you mean by changing the symptoms of it.

Cleo. When a man exults in his pride, and gives a loose to that passion, the marks of it are as visible in his countenance, his mien, his gait and behaviour, as they are in a prancing horse, or a strutting turkey-cock. These are all very odious; every one feeling the same principle within, which is the cause of those symptoms; and man being endued with speech, all the open expressions the same passion can suggest to him, must for the same reason be equally displeasing: these, therefore, have in all societies been strictly prohibited by common consent, in the very infancy of good manners; and men have been taught, in the room of them, to substitute other symptoms, equally evident with the first, but less offensive, and more beneficial to others.

Hor. Which are they?

Cleo. Fine clothes, and other ornaments about them, the cleanliness observed about their persons, the submissions that is required of servants, costly equipages, furniture, buildings, titles of honour, and every thing that men can acquire to make themselves esteemed by others, without discovering any of the symptoms that are forbid: upon a satiety of enjoying these, they are allowed likewise to have the vapours, and be whimsical, though otherwise they are known to be in health and of good sense.

Hor. But since the pride of others is displeasing to us in every shape, and these latter symptoms, you say, are equally evident with the first, what is got by the change?

Cleo. A great deal: when pride is designedly expressed in looks and gestures, either in a wild or tame man, it is known by all human creatures that see it; it is the same, when vented in words, by every body that understands the language they are spoken in. These are marks and tokens that are all the world over the same: nobody shows them, but to have them seen and understood, and few persons ever display them without designing that offence to others, which they never fail to give: whereas, the other symptoms may be denied to be what they are; and many pretences, that they are derived from other motives, may be made for them, which the same good manners teach us never to refute, nor easily to disbelieve: in the very excuses that are made, there is a condescension that satisfies and pleases us. In those that are altogether destitute of the opportunities to display the symptoms of pride that are allowed of, the least portion of that passion is a troublesome, though often an unknown guest; for in them it is easily turned into envy and malice, and on the least provocation, it sallies out in those disguises, and is often the cause of cruelty; and there never was a mischief committed by mobs or multitudes, which this passion had not a hand in: whereas, the more room men have to vent and gratify the passion in the warrantable ways, the more easy it is for them to stifle the odious part of pride, and seem to be wholly free from it.

Hor. I see very well, that real virtues requires a conquest over untaught nature, and that the Christian religion demands a still stricter self-denial: it likewise is evident, that to make ourselves acceptable to an omniscient Power, nothing is more necessary than sincerity, and that the heart should be pure. But setting aside sacred matters, and a future state, do not you think that this complaisance and easy construction of one another’s actions, do a great deal of good upon earth; and do not you believe that good manners and politeness make men more happy, and their lives more comfortable in this world, than any thing else could make them without those arts?

Cleo. If you will set aside what ought to employ our first care, and be our greatest concern; and men will have no value for that felicity and peace of mind, which can only arise from a consciousness of being good, it is certain, that in a great nation, and among a flourishing people, whose highest wishes seem to be ease and luxury, the upper part could not, without those arts, enjoy so much of the world as that can afford; and that none stand more in need of them than the voluptuous men of parts, that will join worldly prudence to sensuality, and make it their chief study to refine upon pleasure.

Hor. When I had the honour of your company at my house, you said that nobody knew when or where, nor in what king’s or emperor’s reign the laws of honour were enacted; pray, can you inform me when or which way, what we call good manners or politeness came into the world? what moralist or politician was it, that could teach men to be proud of hiding their pride?

Cleo. The resistless industry of man to supply his wants; and his constant endeavours to meliorate his condition upon earth, have produced and brought to perfection many useful arts and sciences, of which the beginnings are of uncertain eras, and to which we can align no other causes, than human sagacity in general, and the joint labour of many ages, in which men have always employed themselves in studying and contriving ways and means to sooth their various appetites, and make the best of their infirmities. Whence had we the first rudiments of architecture; how came sculpture and painting to be what they have been these many hundred years; and who taught every nation the respective languages they speak now. When I have a mind to dive into the origin of any maxim or political invention, for the use of society in general, I do not trouble my head with inquiring after the time or country in which it was first heard of, nor what others have wrote or said about it; but I go directly to the fountain head, human nature itself, and look for the frailty or defect in man, that is remedied or supplied by that invention: when things are very obscure, I sometimes make use of conjectures to find my way.

Hor. Do you argue, or pretend to prove any thing from those conjectures?

Cleo. No; I never reason but from the plain observations which every body may make on man, the phenomena that appear in the lesser world.

Hor. You have, without doubt, thought on this subject before now; would you communicate to me some of your guesses?

Cleo. With abundance of pleasure.

Hor. You will give me leave, now and then, when things are not clear to me, to put in a word for information’s sake.

Cleo. I desire you would: you will oblige me with it. That self-love was given to all animals, at least, the most perfect, for self-preservation, is not disputed; but as no creature can love what it dislikes, it is necessary, moreover, that every one should have a real liking to its own being, superior to what they have to any other. I am of opinion, begging pardon for the novelty, that if this liking was not always permanent, the love which all creatures have for themselves, could not be so unalterable as we see it is.

Hor. What reason have you to suppose this liking, which creatures have for themselves, to be distinct from self-love; since the one plainly comprehends the other?

Cleo. I will endeavour to explain myself better. I fancy, that to increase the care in creatures to preserve themselves, nature has given them an instinct, by which every individual values itself above its real worth; this in us, I mean in man, seems to be accompanied with a diffidence, arising from a consciousness, or at least an apprehension, that we do overvalue ourselves: it is that makes us so fond of the approbation, liking, and assent of others; because they strengthen and confirm us in the good opinion we have of ourselves. The reasons why this self-liking, give me leave to call it so, is not plainly to be seen in all animals that are of the same degree of perfection, are many. Some want ornaments, and consequently the means to express it; others are too stupid and listless: it is to be considered likewise, that creatures, which are always in the same circumstances, and meet with little variation in their way of living, have neither opportunity nor temptation to show it; that the more mettle and liveliness creatures have, the more visible this liking is; and that in those of the same kind, the greater spirit they are of, and the more they excel in the perfections of their species, the fonder they are of showing it: in most birds it is evident, especially in those that have extraordinary finery to display: in a horse it is more conspicuous than in any other irrational creature: it is most apparent in the swiftest, the strongest, the most healthy and vigorous; and may be increased in that animal by additional ornaments, and the presence of man, whom he knows, to clean, take care of, and delight in him. It is not improbable, that this great liking which creatures have for their own individuals, is the principle on which the love to their species is built: cows and sheep, too dull and lifeless to make any demonstration of this liking, yet herd and feed together, each with his own species; because no others are so like themselves: by this they seem to know likewise, that they have the same interest, and the same enemies; cows have often been seen to join in a common defence against wolves: birds of a feather flock together; and I dare say, that the screechowl likes her own note better than that of the nightingale.

Hor. Montaigne seems to have been somewhat of your opinion, when he fancied, that if brutes were to paint the Deity, they would all draw him of their own species. But what you call self-liking is evidently pride.

Cleo. I believe it is, or at least the cause of it. I believe, moreover, that many creatures show this liking, when, for want of understanding them, we do not perceive it: When a cat washes her face, and a dog licks himself clean, they adorn themselves as much as it is in their power. Man himself, in a savage state, feeding on nuts and acorns, and destitute of all outward ornaments, would have infinitely less temptation, as well as opportunity, of showing this liking of himself, than he has when civilized; yet if a hundred males of the first, all equally free, were together, within less than half an hour, this liking in question, though their bellies were full, would appear in the desire of superiority, that would be shown among them; and the most vigorous, either in strength or understanding, or both, would be the first that would display it: If, as supposed, they were all untaught, this would breed contention, and there would certainly be war before there could be any agreement among them; unless one of them had some one or more visible excellencies above the rest. I said males, and their bellies full; because, if they had women among them, or wanted food, their quarrel might begin on another account.

Hor. This is thinking abstractly indeed: but do you think that two or three hundred single savages, men and women, that never had been under any subjection, and were above twenty years of age, could ever establish a society, and be united into one body, if, without being acquainted with one another, they should meet by chance!

Cleo. No more, I believe, than so many horses: but societies never were made that way. It is possible that several families of savages might unite, and the heads of them agree upon some sort of government or other, for their common good: but among them it is certain likewise, that, though superiority was tolerably well settled, and every male had females enough, strength and prowess in this uncivilized state would be infinitely more valued than understanding: I mean in the men; for the women will always prize themselves for what they see the men admire in them: Hence it would follow, that the women would value themselves, and envy one another for being handsome; and that the ugly and deformed, and all those that were least favoured by nature, would be the first, that would fly to art and additional ornaments: seeing that this made them more agreeable to the men, it would soon be followed by the rest, and in a little time they would strive to outdo one another, as much as their circumstances would allow of; and it is possible, that a woman, with a very handsome nose, might envy her neighbour with a much worse, for having a ring through it.

Hor. You take great delight in dwelling on the behaviour of savages; what relation has this to politeness?

Cleo. The seeds of it are lodged in this self-love and self-liking, which I have spoke of, as will soon appear, if we would consider what would be the consequence of them in the affair of self-preservation, and a creature endued with understanding, speech, and risibility. Self-love would first make it scrape together every thing it wanted for sustenance, provide against the injuries of the air, and do every thing to make itself and young ones secure. Self-liking would make it seek for opportunities, by gestures, looks, and sounds, to display the value it has for itself, superior to what it has for others; an untaught man would desire every body that came near him, to agree with him in the opinion of his superior worth, and be angry, as far as his fear would let him, with all that should refuse it: he would be highly delighted with, and love every body whom he thought to have a good opinion of him, especially those, that, by words or gestures, should own it to his face: whenever he met with any visible marks in others of inferiority to himself, he would laugh, and do the same at their misfortunes, as far as his own pity would give him leave, and he would insult every body that would let him.

Hor. This self-liking, you say, was given to creatures for self-preservation: I should think rather that it is hurtful to men, because it must make them odious to one another; and I cannot see what benefit they can receive from it, either in a savage or a civilized state: is there any instance of its doing any good?

Cleo. I wonder to hear you ask that question. Have you forgot the many virtues which I have demonstrated, may be counterfeited to gain applause, and the good qualities a man of sense in great fortune may acquire, by the sole help and instigation of his pride?

Hor. I beg your pardon: yet what you say only regards man in the society, and after he has been perfectly well educated: what advantage is it to him as a single creature? Self-love I can plainly see, induces him to labour for his maintenance and safety, and makes him fond of every thing which he imagines to tend to his preservation; but what good does the self-liking to him?

Cleo. If I should tell you, that the inward pleasure and satisfaction a man receives from the gratification of that passion, is a cordial that contributes to his health, you would laugh at me, and think it far fetched.

Hor. Perhaps not; but I would set against it the many sharp vexations and heart-breaking sorrows, that men suffer on the score of this passion, from disgraces, disappointments, and other misfortunes, which, I believe, have sent millions to their graves much sooner than they would have gone, if their pride had less affected them.

Cleo. I have nothing against what you say: but this is no proof that the passion itself was not given to man for self-preservation; and it only lays open to us the precariousness of sublunary happiness, and the wretched condition of mortals. There is nothing created that is always a blessing; the rain and sunshine themselves, to which all earthly comforts are owing, have been the causes of innumerable calamities. All animals of prey, and thousand others, hunt after food with the hazard of their lives, and the greater part of them perish in their pursuits after sustenance. Plenty itself is not less fatal to some, than want is to others; and of our own species, every opulent nation has had great numbers, that in full safety from all other dangers, have destroyed themselves by excesses of eating and drinking: yet nothing is more certain, than that hunger and thirst were given to creatures, to make them solicitous after, and crave those necessaries, without which it would be impossible for them to subsist.

Hor. Still I can see no advantage accruing from their self-liking to man, considered as a single creature, which can induce me to believe, that nature should have given it us for self-preservation. What you have alleged is obscure; can you name a benefit every individual person receives from that principle within him, that is manifest, and clearly to be understood?

Cleo. Since it has been in disgrace, and every body disowns the passion, it seldom is seen in its proper colours, and disguises itself in a thousand different shapes: we are often affected with it, when we have not the least suspicion of it; but it seems to be that which continually furnishes us with that relish we have for life, even when it is not worth having. Whilst men are pleased, self-liking has every moment a considerable share, though unknown, in procuring the satisfaction they enjoy. It is so necessary to the well-being of those that have been used to indulge it, that they can taste no pleasure without it; and such is the deference, and the submissive veneration they pay to it, that they are deaf to the loudest calls of nature, and will rebuke the strongest appetites that should pretend to be gratified at the expence of that passion. It doubles our happiness in prosperity, and buoys us up against the frowns of adverse fortune. It is the mother of hopes, and the end as well as the foundation of our best wishes: it is the strongest armour against despair; and as long as we can like any ways our situation, either in regard to present circumstances, or the prospect before us, we take care of ourselves; and no man can resolve upon suicide, whilst self-liking lasts: but as soon as that is over, all our hopes are extinct, and we can form no wishes but for the dissolution of our frame; till at last our being becomes so intolerable to us, that self-love prompts us to make an end of it, and seek refuge in death.

Hor. You mean self-hatred; for you have said yourself, that a creature cannot love what it dislikes.

Cleo. If you turn the prospect, you are in the right: but this only proves to us what I have often hinted at, that man is made up of contrarieties; otherwise nothing seems to be more certain, than that whoever kills himself by choice, must do it to avoid something, which he dreads more than that death which he chooses. Therefore, how absurd soever a person’s reasoning may be, there is in all suicide a palpable intention of kindness to one’s self.

Hor. I must own that your observations are entertaining. I am very well pleased with your discourse, and I see an agreeable glimmering of probability that runs through it; but you have said nothing that comes up to a half proof on the side of your conjecture, if it be seriously considered.

Cleo. I told you before that I would lay no stress upon, nor draw any conclusions from it: but whatever nature’s design was in bestowing this self-liking on creatures, and whether it has been given to other animals besides ourselves or not, it is certain, that in our own species every individual person likes himself better than he does any other.

Hor. It may be so, generally speaking: but that it is not universally true, I can assure you, from my own experience; for I have often wished my self to be Count Theodati, whom you knew at Rome.

Cleo. He was a very fine person indeed, and extremely well accomplished; and therefore you wished to be such another, which is all you could mean. Celia has a very handsome face, fine eyes, fine teeth; but she has red hair, and is ill made: therefore she wishes for Chloe’s hair and Belinda’s shape; but she would still remain Celia.

Hor. But I wished that I might have been that person, that very Theodati.

Cleo. That is impossible.

Hor. What, is it impossible to wish it?

Cleo. Yes, to wish it; unless you wished for annihilation at the same time. It is that self we wish well to; and therefore we cannot wish for any change in ourselves, but with a proviso, that τὸ self, that part of us that wishes, should still remain: for take away that consciousness you had of yourself whilst you was wishing, and tell me, pray, what part of you it is that could be the better for the alteration you wished for?

Hor. I believe you are in the right. No man can wish but to enjoy something, which no part of that same man could do, if he was entirely another.

Cleo. That he itself, the person wishing, must be destroyed before the change could be entire.

Hor. But when shall we come to the origin of politeness?

Cleo. We are at it now, and we need not look for it any further than in the self-liking, which I have demonstrated every individual man to be possessed of. Do but consider these two things: First, that from the nature of that passion, it must follow, that all untaught men will ever be hateful to one another in conversation, where neither interest nor superiority are considered: for, if of two equals, one only values himself more by half, than he does the other, though that other should value the first equally with himself, they would both be dissatisfied, if their thoughts were known to each other; but if both valued themselves more by half, than they did each other, the difference between them would still be greater, and a declaration of their sentiments would render them both insufferable to each other; which, among uncivilized men, would happen every moment, because, without a mixture of art and trouble, the outward symptoms of that passion are not to be stifled. The second thing I would have you consider, is, the effect which, in all human probability, this inconveniency, arising from self-liking, would have upon creatures endued with a great share of understanding, that are fond of their ease to the last degree, and as industrious to procure it. These two things, I say, do but duly weigh, and you shall find that the disturbance and uneasiness that must be caused by self-liking, whatever strugglings and unsuccessful trials to remedy them might precede, must necessarily produce, at long run, what we call good manners and politeness.

Hor. I understand you, I believe. Every body in this undisciplined state, being affected with the high value he has for himself, and displaying the most natural symptoms which you have described, they would all be offended at the barefaced pride of their neighbours: and it is impossible that this should continue long among rational creatures, but the repeated experience of the uneasiness they received from such behaviour, would make some of them reflect on the cause of it; which, in tract of time, would make them find out, that their own barefaced pride, must be as offensive to others, as that of others is to themselves.

Cleo. What you say is certainly the philosophical reason of the alterations that are made in the behaviour of men, by their being civilized: but all this is done without reflection; and men by degrees, and great length of time, fall as it were into these things spontaneously.

Hor. How is that possible, when it must cost them trouble, and there is a palpable self-denial to be seen in the restraint they put upon themselves?

Cleo. In the pursuit of self-preservation, men discover a restless endeavour to make themselves easy, which insensibly teaches them to avoid mischief on all emergencies: and when human creatures once submit to government, and are used to live under the restraint of laws, it is incredible how many useful cautions, shifts, and stratagems they will learn to practise by experience and imitation, from conversing together, without being aware of the natural causes that oblige them to act as they do, viz. the passions within, that, unknown to themselves, govern their will and direct their behaviour.

Hor. You will make men as mere machines as Cartes does brutes.

Cleo. I have no such design: but I am of opinion, that men find out the use of their limbs by instinct, as much as brutes do the use of theirs; and that, without knowing any thing of geometry or arithmetic, even children may learn to perform actions that seem to bespeak great skill in mechanics, and a considerable depth of thought and ingenuity in the contrivance besides.

Hor. What actions are they which you judge this from?

Cleo. The advantageous postures which they will choose in resisting force, in pulling, pushing, or otherwise removing weight; from their sleight and dexterity in throwing stones, and other projectiles; and the stupendous cunning made use of in leaping.

Hor. What stupendous cunning, I pray?

Cleo. When men would leap or jump a great way, you know, they take a run before they throw themselves off the ground. It is certain, that, by this means, they jump farther, and with greater force than they could do otherwise: the reason likewise is very plain. The body partakes of, and is moved by two motions; and the velocity, impressed upon it by leaping, must be added to so much, as it retained of the velocity it was put into by running: Whereas, the body of a person who takes this leap, as he is standing still, has no other motion, than what is received from the muscular strength exerted in the act of leaping. See a thousand boys, as well as men, jump, and they will make use of this stratagem; but you will not find one of them that does it knowingly for that reason. What I have said of that stratagem made use of in leaping, I desire you would apply to the doctrine of good manners, which is taught and practised by millions, who never thought on the origin of politeness, or so much as knew the real benefit it is of to society. The most crafty and designing will every where be the first; that, for interest-sake, will learn to conceal this passion of pride, and, in a little time, nobody will show the least symptom of it, whilst he is asking favours, or stands in need of help.

Hor. That rational creatures should do all this, without thinking or knowing what they are about, is inconceivable. Bodily motion is one thing, and the exercise of the understanding is another; and therefore agreeable postures, a graceful mien, an easy carriage, and a genteel outward behaviour, in general, may be learned and contracted perhaps without much thought; but good manners are to be observed every where, in speaking, writing, and ordering actions to be performed by others.

Cleo. To men who never turned their thoughts that way, it certainly is almost inconceivable to what prodigious height, from next to nothing, some arts may be, and have been raised by human industry and application, by the uninterrupted labour and joint experience of many ages, though none but men of ordinary capacity should ever be employed in them. What a noble, as well as beautiful, what a glorious machine is a first rate man of war when she is under sail, well rigged, and well manned! As in bulk and weight it is vastly superior to any other moveable body of human invention, so there is no other that has an equal variety of differently surprising contrivance to boast of. There are many sets of hands in the nation, that, not wanting proper materials, would be able in less than half a-year, to produce, fit out, and navigate a first rate: yet it is certain, that this task would be impracticable, if it was not divided and subdivided into a great variety of different labours; and it is as certain, that none of these labours require any other, than working men of ordinary capacities.

Hor. What would you infer from this?

Cleo. That we often ascribe to the excellency of man’s genius, and the depth of his penetration, what is in reality owing to length of time, and the experience of many generations, all of them very little differing from one another in natural parts and sagacity. And to know what it must have cost to bring that art of making ships for different purposes, to the perfection in which it is now, we are only to consider, in the first place, that many considerable improvements have been made in it within these fifty years and less; and, in the second, that the inhabitants of this island did build, and make use of ships eighteen hundred years ago, and that, from that time to this, they have never been without.

Hor. Which altogether make a strong proof of the slow progress that art has made to be what it is.

Cleo. The Chevalier Reneau has wrote a book, in which he shows the mechanism of sailing, and accounts mathematically for every thing that belongs to the working and steering of a ship. I am persuaded, that neither the first inventors of ships and sailing, or those who have made improvements since in any part of them, ever dreamed of those reasons, any more than now the rudest and most illiterate of the vulgar do, when they are made sailors, which time and practice will do in spite of their teeth. We have thousands of them that were first hauled on board, and detained against their wills, and yet, in less than three years time, knew every rope and every pully in the ship, and without the least scrap of mathematics, had learned the management as well as use of them, much better than the greatest mathematician could have done in all his lifetime, if he had never been at sea. The book I mentioned, among other curious things, demonstrates what angle the rudder must make with the keel, to render its influence upon the ship the most powerful. This has its merit; but a lad of fifteen, who has served a year of his time on board of a hoy, knows every thing that is useful in this demonstration, practically. Seeing the poop always answering the motion of the helm, he only minds the latter, without making the least reflection on the rudder, until in a year or two more his knowledge in sailing, and capacity of steering his vessel, become so habitual to him, that he guides her, as he does his own body, by instinct, though he is half asleep, or thinking on quite another thing.

Hor. If, as you said, and which I now believe to be true, the people who first invented, and afterwards improved upon ships and sailing, never dreamed of those reasons of Monsieur Reneau, it is impossible that they should have acted from them, as motives that induced them à priori, to put their inventions and improvements in practice, with knowledge and design, which, I suppose, is what you intended to prove.

Cleo. It is; and I verily believe, not only that the raw beginners, who made the first essays in either art, good manners as well as sailing, were ignorant of the true cause; the real foundation those arts are built upon in nature; but likewise that, even now both arts are brought to great perfection, the greatest part of those that are most expert, and daily making improvements in them, know as little of the rationale of them, as their predecessors did at first: though I believe, at the same time, Monsieur Reneau’s reasons to be very just, and yours as good as his; that is, I believe, that there is as much truth and solidity in your accounting for the origin of good manners, as there is in his for the management of ships. They are very seldom the same sort of people, those that invent arts and improvements in them, and those that inquire into the reason of things: this latter is most commonly practised by such as are idle and indolent, that are fond of retirement, hate business, and take delight in speculation; whereas, none succeed oftener in the first, than active, stirring, and laborious men, such as will put their hand to the plough, try experiments, and give all their attention to what they are about.

Hor. It is commonly imagined, that speculative men are best at invention of all sorts.

Cleo. Yet it is a mistake. Soap-boiling, grain-drying, and other trades and mysteries, are, from mean beginnings, brought to great perfection; but the many improvements that can be remembered to have been made in them, have, for the generality, been owing to persons, who either were brought up to, or had long practised, and been conversant in those trades, and not to great proficients in chemistry, or other parts of philosophy, whom one would naturally expect those things from. In some of these arts, especially grain or scarlet-dying, there are processes really astonishing; and, by the mixture of various ingredients, by fire and fermentation, several operations are performed, which the most sagacious naturalist cannot account for by any system yet known; a certain sign that they were not invented by reasoning à priori. When once the generality begin to conceal the high value they have for themselves, men must become more tolerable to one another. Now, new improvements must be made every day, until some of them grow impudent enough, not only to deny the high value they have for themselves, but likewise to pretend that they have greater value for others, than they have for themselves. This will bring in complaisance; and now flattery will rush in upon them like a torrent. As soon as they are arrived at this pitch of insincerity, they will find the benefit of it, and teach it their children. The passion of shame is so general, and so early discovered in all human creatures, that no nation can be so stupid, as to be long without observing and making use of it accordingly. The same may be said of the credulity of infants, which is very inviting to many good purposes. The knowledge of parents is communicated to their offspring, and every one’s experience in life being added to what he learned in his youth, every generation after this must be better taught than the preceding; by which means, in two or three centuries, good manners must be brought to great perfection.

Hor. When they are thus far advanced, it is easy to conceive the rest: For improvements, I suppose, are made in good manners, as they are in all other arts and sciences. But to commence from savages, men, I believe, would make but a small progress in good manners the first three hundred years. The Romans, who had a much better beginning, had been a nation above six centuries, and were almost masters of the world, before they could be said to be a polite people. What I am most astonished at, and which I am now convinced of, is, that the basis of all this machinery is pride. Another thing I wonder at, is, that you chose to speak of a nation that entered upon good manners before they had any notions of virtue or religion, which, I believe, there never was in the world.

Cleo. Pardon me, Horatio; I have nowhere insinuated that they had none, but I had no reason to mention them. In the first place, you asked my opinion concerning the use of politeness in this world, abstract from the considerations of a future state: Secondly, the art of good manners has nothing to do with virtue or religion, though it seldom clashes with either. It is a science that is ever built on the same steady principle in our nature, whatever the age or the climate may be in which it is practised.

Hor. How can any thing be said not to clash with virtue or religion, that has nothing to do with either, and consequently disclaims both?

Cleo. This, I confess, seems to be a paradox; yet it is true. The doctrine of good manners teaches men to speak well of all virtues, but requires no more of them in any age or country, than the outward appearance of those in fashion. And as to sacred matters, it is every where satisfied with seeming conformity in outward worship; for all the religions in the universe are equally agreeable to good manners, where they are national; and pray what opinion must we say a teacher to be of, to whom all opinions are probably alike? All the precepts of good manners throughout the world have the same tendency, and are no more than the various methods of making ourselves acceptable to others, with as little prejudice to ourselves as is possible: by which artifice we assist one another in the enjoyments of life, and refining upon pleasure; and every individual person is rendered more happy by it in the fruition of all the good things he can purchase, than he could have been without such behaviour. I mean happy, in the sense of the voluptuous. Let us look back on old Greece, the Roman empire, or the great eastern nations that flourished before them, and we shall find, that luxury and politeness ever grew up together, and were never enjoyed asunder; that comfort and delight upon earth have always employed the wishes of the beau monde; and that, as their chief study and greatest solicitude, to outward appearance, have ever been directed to obtain happiness in this world, so what would become of them in the next, seems, to the naked eye, always to have been the least of their concern.

Hor. I thank you for your lecture: you have satisfied me in several things, which I had intended to ask: But you have said some others, that I must have time to consider; after which I am resolved to wait upon you again; for I begin to believe, that, concerning the knowledge of ourselves, most books are either very defective or very deceitful.

Cleo. There is not a more copious, nor a more faithful volume than human nature, to those who will diligently peruse it; and I sincerely believe, that I have discovered nothing to you, which, if you had thought of it with attention, you would not have found out yourself. But I shall never be better pleased with myself, than when I can contribute to any entertainment you shall think diverting.

THE FOURTH
DIALOGUE
BETWEEN
HORATIO AND CLEOMENES.

CLEOMENES.

Your servant.

Hor. What say you now, Cleomenes; is it not this without ceremony?

Cleo. You are very obliging.

Hor. When they told me where you was, I would suffer nobody to tell you who it was that wanted you, or to come up with me.

Cleo. This is friendly, indeed!

Hor. You see what a proficient I am: In a little time you will teach me to lay aside all good manners.

Cleo. You make a fine tutor of me.

Hor. You will pardon me, I know: this study of yours is a very pretty place.

Cleo. I like it, because the sun never enters it.

Hor. A very pretty room!

Cleo. Shall we sit down in it? It is the coolest room in the house.

Hor. With all my heart.

Cleo. I was in hopes to have seen you before now: you have taken a long time to consider.

Hor. Just eight days?

Cleo. Have you thought on the novelty I started?

Hor. I have, and think it not void of probability; for that there are no innate ideas, and men come into the world without any knowledge at all, I am convinced of, and therefore it is evident to me, that all arts and sciences must once have had a beginning in somebody’s brain, whatever oblivion that may now be lost in. I have thought twenty times since I saw you last, on the origin of good manners, and what a pleasant scene it would be to a man who is tolerably well versed in the world, to see among a rude nation those first essays they made of concealing their pride from one another.

Cleo. You see by this, that it is chiefly the novelty of things that strikes, as well in begetting our aversion, as in gaining our approbation; and that we may look upon many indifferently, when they come to be familiar to us, though they were shocking when they were new. You are now diverting yourself with a truth, which eight days ago you would have given an hundred guineas not to have known.

Hor. I begin to believe there is nothing so absurd, that it would appear to us to be such, is we had been accustomed to it very young.

Cleo. In a tolerable education, we are so industriously and so assiduously instructed, from our most early infancy, in the ceremonies of bowing, and pulling off hats, and other rules of behaviour, that even before we are men we hardly look upon a mannerly deportment as a thing acquired, or think conversation to be a science. Thousand things are called easy and natural in postures and motions, as well as speaking and writing, that have caused infinite pains to others as well as ourselves, and which we know to be the product of art. What awkward lumps have I known, which the dancing-master has put limbs to!

Hor. Yesterday morning as I sat musing by myself, an expression of yours which I did not so much reflect upon at first, when I heard it, came into my head, and made me smile. Speaking of the rudiments of good manners in an infant nation, when they once entered upon concealing their pride, you said, that improvements would be made every day, “till some of them grew impudent enough, not only to deny the high value they had for themselves, but likewise to pretend that they had greater value for others than they had for themselves.”

Cleo. It is certain, that this every where must have been the forerunner of flattery.

Hor. When you talk of flattery and impudence, what do you think of the first man that had the face to tell his equal, that he was his humble servant?

Cleo. If that had been a new compliment, I should have wondered much more at the simplicity of the proud man that swallowed, than I would have done at the impudence of the knave that made it.

Hor. It certainly once was new: which pray do you believe more ancient, pulling off the hat, or saying, your humble servant?

Cleo. They are both of them Gothic and modern.

Hor. I believe pulling off the hat was first, it being the emblem of liberty.

Cleo. I do not think so: for he who pulled of his hat the first time, could not have been understood, if saying your servant had not been practised: and to show respect, a man as well might have pulled off one of his shoes, as his hat; if saying, your servant, had not been an established and well-known compliment.

Hor. So he might, as you say, and had a better authority for the first, than he could have for the latter.

Cleo. And to this day, taking of the hat is a dumb show of a known civility in words: Mind now the power of custom, and imbibed notions. We both laugh at this Gothic absurdity, and are well assured, that it must have had its origin from the basest flattery; yet neither of us, walking with our hats on, could meet an acquaintance with whom we are not very familiar, without showing this piece of civility; nay, it it would be a pain to us not to do it. But we have no reason to think, that the compliment of saying, your servant, began among equals; but rather that, flatterers having given it to princes, it grew afterwards more common: for all those postures and flexions of body and limbs, had in all probability their rise from the adulation that was paid to conquerors and tyrants; who, having every body to fear, were always alarmed at the least shadow of opposition, and never better pleased than with submissive and defenceless postures: and you see, that they have all a tendency that way; they promise security, and are silent endeavours to ease and rid them, not only of their fears, but likewise every suspicion of harm approaching them: such as lying prostrate on our faces, touching the ground with our heads, kneeling, bowing low, laying our hands upon our breasts, or holding them behind us, folding our arms together, and all the cringes that can be made to demonstrate that we neither indulge our ease, nor stand upon our guard. These are evident signs and convincing proofs to a superior, that we have a mean opinion of ourselves in respect to him, that we are at his mercy, and have no thought to resist, much less to attack him; and therefore it is highly probable, that saying, your servant, and pulling off the hat, were at first demonstrations of obedience to those that claimed it.

Hor. Which in tract of time became more familiar, and were made use of reciprocally in the way of civility.

Cleo. I believe so; for as good manners increase, we see, that the highest compliments are made common, and new ones to superiors invented instead of them.

Hor. So the word grace, which not long ago was a title, that none but our kings and queens were honoured with, is devolved upon archbishops and dukes.

Cleo. It was the same with highness, which is now given to the children, and even the grandchildren of kings.

Hor. The dignity that is annexed to the signification of the word lord, has been better preserved with us, than in most countries: in Spanish, Italian, high and low Dutch, it is prostituted to almost every body.

Cleo. It has had better fate in France; where likewise the word sire has lost nothing of its majesty, and is only used to the monarch: whereas, with us, it is a compliment of address, that may be made to a cobbler, as well as to a king.

Hor. Whatever alterations may be made in the sense of words, by time; yet, as the world grows more polished, flattery becomes less barefaced, and the design of it upon man’s pride is better disguised than it was formerly. To praise a man to his face, was very common among the ancients: considering humility to be a virtue particularly required of Christians, I have often wondered how the fathers of the church could suffer those acclamations and applauses, that were made to them whilst they were preaching; and which, though some of them spoke against them, many of them appear to have been extremely fond of.

Cleo. Human nature is always the same; where men exert themselves to the utmost, and take uncommon pains, that spend and waste the spirits, those applauses are very reviving the fathers who spoke against them, spoke chiefly against the abuse of them.

Hor. It must have been very odd to hear people bawling out, as often the greatest part of an audience did, Sophos, divinitus, non potest melius, mirabiliter, acriter, ingeniose: they told the preachers likewise that they were orthodox, and sometimes called them, apostolus decimus tertius.

Cleo. These words at the end of a period might have passed, but the repetitions of them were often so loud and so general, and the noise they made with their hands and feet, so disturbing in and out of season, that they could not hear a quarter of the the sermon; yet several fathers owned that it was highly delightful, and soothing human frailty.

Hor. The behaviour at churches is more decent, as it is now.

Cleo. Since paganism has been quite extinct in the old western world, the zeal of Christians is much diminished from what it was, when they had many opposers: the want of fervency had a great hand in abolishing that fashion.

Hor. But whether it was the fashion or not, it must always have been shocking.

Cleo. Do you think, that the repeated acclamations, the clapping, stamping, and the most extravagant tokens of applause, that are now used at our several theatres, were ever shocking to a favourite actor; or that the huzzas of the mob, or the hideous shouts of soldiers, were ever shocking to persons of the highest distinction, to whose honour they were made?

Hor. I have known princes that were very much tired with them.

Cleo. When they had too much of them; but never at first. In working a machine, we ought to have regard to the strength of its frame: limited creatures are not susceptible of infinite delight; therefore we see, that a pleasure protracted beyond its due bounds becomes a pain: but where the custom of the country is not broken in upon, no noise, that is palpably made in our praise, and which we may hear with decency, can ever be ungrateful, if it do not outlast a reasonable time; but there is no cordial so sovereign, that it may not become offensive, by being taken to excess.

Hor. And the sweeter and more delicious liquors are, the sooner they become fulsome, and the less fit they are to sit by.

Cleo. Your simile is not amiss; and the same acclamations that are ravishing to a man at first, and perhaps continue to give him an unspeakable delight for eight or nine minutes, may become more moderately pleasing, indifferent, cloying, troublesome, and even so offensive as to create pain, all in less than three hours, if they were to continue so long without intermission.

Hor. There must be great witchcraft in sounds, that they should have such different effects upon us, as we often see they have.

Cleo. The pleasure we receive from acclamations, is not in the hearing; but proceeds from the opinion we form of the cause that produces those sounds, the approbation of others. At the theatres all over Italy you have heard, that, when the whole audience demands silence and attention, which there is an established mark of benevolence and applause, the noise they make comes very near, and is hardly to be distinguished from our hissing, which with us is the plainest token of dislike and contempt: and without doubt the cat-calls to affront Faustina were far more agreeable to Cozzoni, than the most artful sounds she ever heard from her triumphant rival.

Hor. That was abominable!

Cleo. The Turks show their respects to their sovereigns by a profound silence, which is strictly kept throughout the seraglio, and still more religiously observed the nearer you come to the Sultan’s apartment.

Hor. This latter is certainly the politer way of gratifying one’s pride.

Cleo. All that depends upon mode and custom.

Hor. But the offerings that are made to a man’s pride in silence, may be enjoyed without the loss of his hearing, which the other cannot.

Cleo. That is a trifle, in the gratification of that passion: we never enjoy higher pleasure, from the appetite we would indulge, than when we feel nothing from any other.

Hor. But silence expresses greater homage, and deeper veneration, than noise.

Cleo. It is good to sooth the pride of a drone; but an active man loves to have that passion roused, and as it were kept awake, whilst it is gratified; and approbation from noise is more unquestionable than the other: however, I will not determine between them; much may be said on both sides. The Greeks and Romans used sounds, to stir up men to noble actions, with great success; and the silence observed among the Ottomans has kept them very well in the slavish submission which their sovereigns require of them: perhaps the one does better where absolute power is lodged in one person, and the other where there is some show of liberty. Both are proper tools to flatter the pride of man, when they are understood and made use of as such. I have known a very brave man used to the shouts of war, and highly delighted with loud applause, be very angry with his butler, for making a little rattling with his plates.

Hor. An old aunt of mine the other day turned away a very clever fellow, for not walking upon his toes; and I must own myself, that the stamping of footmen, and all unmannerly loudness of servants, are very offensive to me; though I never entered into the reason of it before now. In our last conversation, when you described the symptoms of self-liking, and what the behaviour would be of an uncivilized man, you named laughing: I know it is one of the characteristics of our species; pray do you take that to be likewise the result of pride?

Cleo. Hobbes is of that opinion, and in most instances it might be derived from thence; but there are some phenomena not to be explained by that hypothesis; therefore I would choose to say, that laughter is a mechanical motion, which we are naturally thrown into when we are unaccountably pleased. When our pride is feelingly gratified; when we hear or see any thing which we admire or approve of; or when we are indulging any other passion or appetite, and the reason why we are pleased seems to be just and worthy, we are then far from laughing: but when things or actions are odd and out of the way, and happen to please us when we can give no just reason why they should do so, it is then, generally speaking, that they make us laugh.

Hor. I would rather side with what you said was Hobbes’s opinion: for the things we commonly laugh at are such as are some way or other mortifying, unbecoming, or prejudicial to others.

Cleo. But what will you say to tickling, which will make an infant laugh that is deaf and blind?

Hor. Can you account for that by your system?

Cleo. Not to my satisfaction; but I will tell you what might be said for it. We know by experience, that the smoother, the softer, and the more sensible the skin is, the more ticklish persons are, generally speaking: we know likewise, that things rough, sharp, and hard, when they touch the skin, are displeasing to us, even before they give pain and that, on the contrary, every thing applied to the skin that is soft and smooth, and not otherwise offensive, is delightful. It is possible that gentle touches being impressed on several nervous filaments at once, every one of them producing a pleasing sensation, may create that confused pleasure which is the occasion of laughter.

Hor. But how came you to think of mechanic motion, in the pleasure of a free agent?

Cleo. Whatever free agency we may pretend to in the forming of ideas, the effect of them upon the body is independent of the will. Nothing is more directly opposite to laughing than frowning: the one draws wrinkles on the fore-head, knits the brows, and keeps the mouth shut: the other does quite the reverse; exporrigere frontem, you know, is a Latin phrase for being merry. In sighing, the muscles of the belly and breast are pulled inward, and the diaphragm is pulled upward more than ordinary; and we seem to endeavour, though in vain, to squeeze and compress the heart, whilst we draw in our breath in a forcible manner; and when, in that squeezing posture, we have taken in as much air as we can contain, we throw it out with the same violence we sucked it in with, and at the same time give a sudden relaxation to all the muscles we employed before. Nature certainly designed this for something in the labour for self-preservation which she forces upon us. How mechanically do all creatures that can make any sound, cry out, and complain in great afflictions, as well as pain and imminent danger! In great torments, the efforts of nature are so violent that way, that, to disappoint her, and prevent the discovery of what we feel by sounds, and which she bids us make, we are forced to draw our mouth into a purse, or else suck in our breath, bite our lips, or squeeze them close together, and use the most effectual means to hinder the air from coming out. In grief we sigh, in mirth we laugh: in the latter little stress is laid upon the respiration, and this is performed with less regularity than it is at any other time; all the muscles without, and every thing within feel loose, and seem to have no other motion than what is communicated to them by the convulsive shakes of laughter.

Hor. I have seen people laugh till they lost all their strength.

Cleo. How much is all this the reverse of what we observe in sighing! When pain or depth of woe make us cry out, the mouth is drawn round, or at least into an oval; the lips are thrusted forward without touching each other, and the tongue is pulled in, which is the reason that all nations, when they exclaim, cry, Oh!

Hor. Why pray!

Cleo. Because whilst the mouth, lips, and tongue, remain in those postures, they can sound no other vowel, and no consonant at all. In laughing, the lips are pulled back, and strained to draw the mouth in its fullest length.

Hor. I would not have you lay a great stress upon that, for it is the same in weeping, which is an undoubted sign of sorrow.

Cleo. In great afflictions, where the heart is oppressed, and anxieties which we endeavour to resist, few people can weep; but when they do, it removes the oppression, and sensibly relieves them: for then their resistance is gone; and weeping in distress is not so much a sign of sorrow as it is an indication that we can bear our sorrow no longer; and therefore it is counted unmanly to weep, because it seems to give up our strength, and is a kind of yielding to our grief. But the action of weeping itself is not more peculiar to grief than it is to joy in adult people; and there are men who show great fortitude in afflictions, and bear the greatest misfortunes with dry eyes, that will cry heartily at a moving scene in a play. Some are easily wrought upon by one thing, others are sooner affected with another; but whatever touches us so forcibly, as to overwhelm the mind, prompts us to weep, and is the mechanical cause of tears; and therefore, besides grief, joy, and pity, there are other things no way relating to ourselves, that may have this effect upon us; such as the relations of surprising events and sudden turns of Providence in behalf of merit; instances of heroism, of generosity; in love, in friendship in an enemy; or the hearing or reading of noble thoughts and sentiments of humanity; more especially if these things are conveyed to us suddenly, in an agreeable manner, and unlooked for, as well as lively expressions. We shall observe, likewise, that none are more subject to this frailty of shedding tears on such foreign accounts, than persons of ingenuity and quick apprehension; and those among them that are most benevolent, generous, and open-hearted; whereas, the dull and stupid, the cruel, selfish, and designing, are very seldom troubled with it. Weeping, therefore, in earnest, is always a sure and involuntary demonstration that something strikes and overcomes the mind, whatever that be which affects it. We find likewise, that outward violence, as sharp winds and smoke, the effluvia of onions, and other volatile salts, &c. have the same effect upon the external fibres of the lachrymal ducts and glands that are exposed, which the sudden swelling and pressure of the spirits has upon those within. The Divine Wisdom is in nothing more conspicuous than in the infinite variety of living creatures of different construction; every part of them being contrived with stupendous skill, and fitted with the utmost accuracy for the different purposes they were designed for. The human body, above all, is a most astonishing master piece of art: the anatomist may have a perfect knowledge of all the bones and their ligaments, the muscles and their tendons, and be able to dissect every nerve and every membrane with great exactness; the naturalist, likewise, may dive a great way into the inward economy, and different symptoms of health and sickness: they may all approve of, and admire the curious machine; but no man can have a tolerable idea of the contrivance, the art, and the beauty of the workmanship itself, even in those things he can see, without being likewise versed in geometry and mechanics.

Hor. How long is it ago that mathematics were brought into physic? that art, I have heard, is brought to great certainty by them.

Cleo. What you speak of is quite another thing. Mathematics never had, nor ever can have, any thing to do with physic, if you mean by it the art of curing the sick. The structure and motions of the body, may perhaps be mechanically accounted for, and all fluids are under the laws of hydrostatics; but we can have no help from any part of the mechanics in the discovery of things, infinitely remote from sight, and entirely unknown as to their shapes and bulks. Physicians, with the rest of mankind, are wholly ignorant of the first principles and constituent parts of things, in which all the virtues and properties of them consist; and this, as well of the blood and other juices of the body, as the simples, and consequently all the medicines they make use of. There is no art that has less certainty than theirs, and the most valuable knowledge in it arises from observation, and is such, as a man of parts and application, who has fitted himself for that study, can only be possessed of after a long and judicious experience. But the pretence to mathematics, or the usefulness of it in the cure of diseases, is a cheat, and as arrant a piece of quackery as a stage and a Merry-Andrew.

Hor. But since there is so much skill displayed in the bones, muscles, and grosser parts, is it not reasonable to think, that there is no less art bestowed on those that are beyond the reach of our senses?

Cleo. I nowise doubt it: Microscopes have opened a new world to us, and I am far from thinking, that nature should leave off her work where we can trace her no further. I am persuaded that our thoughts, and the affections of the mind, have a more certain and more mechanical influence upon several parts of the body than has been hitherto or, in all human probability, ever will be discovered. The visible effect they have on the eyes and muscles of the face, must show the least attentive the reason I have for this assertion. When in mens company we are upon our guard, and would preserve our dignity, the lips are shut and the jaws meet; the muscles of the mouth are gently braced, and the rest all over the face are kept firmly in their places: turn away from these into another room, where you meet with a fine young lady that is affable and easy; immediately, before you think on it, your countenance will be strangely altered; and without being conscious of having done any thing to your face, you will have quite another look; and every body that has observed you, will discover in it more sweetness and less severity than you had the moment before. When we suffer the lower jaw to sink down, the mouth opens a little: if in this posture we look straight before us, without fixing our eyes on any thing, we may imitate the countenance of a natural; by dropping, as it were, our features, and laying no stress on any muscle of the face. Infants, before they have learned to swallow their spittle, generally keep their mouths open, and are always drivelling: in them, before they show any understanding, and whilst it is yet very confused, the muscles of the face are, as it were, relaxed, the lower jaw falls down, and the fibres of the lips are unbraced; at least, these phenomena we observe in them, during that time, more often than we do afterwards. In extreme old age, when people begin to doat, those symptoms return; and in most idiots they continue to be observed, as long as they live: Hence it is that we say, that a man wants a slabbering-bib, when he behaves very sillily or talks like a natural fool. When we reflect on all this, on the one hand, and consider on the other, that none are less prone to anger than idiots, and no creatures are less affected with pride, I would ask, whether there is not some degree of self-liking, that mechanically influences, and seems to assist us in the decent wearing of our faces.

Hor. I cannot resolve you; what I know very well is, that by these conjectures on the mechanism of man, I find my understanding very little informed: I wonder how we came upon the subject.

Cleo. You inquired into the origin of risibility, which nobody can give an account of, with any certainty; and in such cases every body is at liberty to make guesses, so they draw no conclusions from them to the prejudice of any thing better established. But the chief design I had in giving you these indigested thoughts, was to hint to you, how really mysterious the works of nature are; I mean, how replete they are every where, with a power glaringly conspicuous, and yet incomprehensible beyond all human reach; in order to demonstrate, that more useful knowledge may be acquired from unwearied observation, judicious experience, and arguing from facts à posteriori, than from the haughty attempts of entering into first causes, and reasoning à priori. I do not believe there is a man in the world of that sagacity, if he was wholly unacquainted with the nature of a spring-watch, that he would ever find out by dint of penetration the cause of its motion, if he was never to see the inside: but every middling capacity may be certain, by seeing only the outside, that its pointing at the hour, and keeping to time, proceed from the exactness of some curious workmanship that is hid; and that the motion of the hands, what number of resorts soever it is communicated by, is originally owing to something else that first moves within. In the same manner we are sure, that as the effects of thought upon the body are palpable, several motions are produced by it, by contact, and consequently mechanically: but the parts, the instruments which that operation is performed with, are so immensely far remote from our senses; and the swiftness of the action is so prodigious, that it infinitely surpasses our capacity to trace them.

Hor. But is not thinking the business of the soul? What has mechanism to do with that?

Cleo. The soul, whilst in the body, cannot be said to think, otherwise than an architect is said to build a house, where the carpenters, bricklayers, &c. do the work, which he chalks out and superintends.

Hor. Which part of the brain do you think the soul to be more immediately lodged in; or do you take it to be diffused through the whole?

Cleo. I know nothing of it more than what I have told you already.

Hor. I plainly feel that this operation of thinking is a labour, or at least something that is transacting in my head, and not in my leg nor my arm: what insight or real knowledge have we from anatomy concerning it?

Cleo. None at all à priori: the most consummate anatomist knows no more of it than a butcher’s apprentice. We may admire the curious duplicate of coats, and close embroidery of veins and arteries that environ the brain: but when dissecting it we have viewed the several pairs of nerves, with their origin, and taken notice of some glands of various shapes and sizes, which differing from the brain in substance, could not but rush in view; when these, I say, have been taken notice of, and distinguished by different names, some of them not very pertinent, and less polite, the best naturalist must acknowledge, that even of these large visible parts there are but few, the nerves and blood-vessels excepted, at the use of which he can give any tolerable guesses: but as to the mysterious structure of the brain itself, and the more abstruse economy of it, that he knows nothing; but that the whole seems to be a medullary substance, compactly treasured up in infinite millions of imperceptible cells, that, disposed in an unconceivable order, are cluttered together in a perplexing variety of folds and windings. He will add, perhaps, that it is reasonable to think this to be the capacious exchequer of human knowledge, in which the faithful senses deposit the vast treasure of images, constantly, as through their organs they receive them; that it is the office in which the spirits are separated from the blood, and afterwards sublimed and volatilized into particles hardly corporeal; and that the most minute of these are always, either searching for, or variously disposing the images retained, and shooting through the infinite meanders of that wonderful substance, employ themselves, without ceasing, in that inexplicable performance, the contemplation of which fills the most exalted genius with amazement.

Hor. These are very airy conjectures; but nothing of all this can be proved: The smallness of the parts, you will say, is the reason; but if greater improvements were made in optic glasses, and microscopes could be invented that magnified objects three or four millions of times more than they do now, then certainly those minute particles, so immensely remote from the senses you speak of, might be observed, if that which does the work is corporeal at all.

Cleo. That such improvements are impossible, is demonstrable; but if it was not, even then we could have little help from anatomy. The brain of an animal cannot be looked and searched into whilst it is alive. Should you take the main spring out of a watch, and leave the barrel that contained it standing empty, it would be impossible to find out what it had been that made it exert itself, whilst it showed the time. We might examine all the wheels, and every other part belonging either to the movement or the motion, and, perhaps, find out the use of them, in relation to the turning of the hands; but the first cause of this labour would remain a mystery for ever.

Hor. The main spring in us is the soul, which is immaterial and immortal: but what is that to other creatures that have a brain like ours, and no such immortal substance distinct from body? Do not you believe that dogs and horses think?

Cleo. I believe they do, though in a degree of perfection far inferior to us.

Hor. What is it that superintends thought in them? where must we look for it? which is the main spring?

Cleo. I can answer you no otherwise, than life.

Hor. What is life?

Cleo. Every body understands the meaning of the word, though, perhaps, nobody knows the principle of life, that part which gives motion to all the rest.

Hor. Where men are certain that the truth of a thing is not to be known, they will always differ, and endeavour to impose upon one another.

Cleo. Whilst there are fools and knaves, they will; but I have not imposed upon you: what I said of the labour of the brain, I told you, was a conjecture, which I recommend no farther to you than you shall think it probable. You ought to expect no demonstration of a thing, that from its nature can admit of none. When the breath is gone, and the circulation ceased, the inside of an animal is vastly different from what it was whilst the lungs played, and the blood and juices were in full motion through every part of it. You have seen those engines that raise water by the help of fire; the steam you know, is that which forces it up; it is as impossible to see the volatile particles that perform the labour of the brain, when the creature is dead, as in the engine it would be to see the steam (which yet does all the work), when the fire is out and the water cold. Yet if this engine was shown to a man when it was not at work, and it was explained to him, which way it raised the water, it would be a strange incredulity, or great dullness of apprehension, not to believe it; if he knew perfectly well, that by heat, liquids may be rarified into vapour.

Hor. But do not you think there is a difference in souls; and are they all equally good or equally bad?

Cleo. We have some tolerable ideas of matter and motion; or, at least, of what we mean by them, and therefore we may form ideas of things corporeal, though they are beyond the reach of our senses; and we can conceive any portion of matter a thousand times less than our eyes, even by the help of the best microscopes, are able to see it: but the soul is altogether incomprehensible, and we can determine but little about it, that is not revealed to us. I believe that the difference of capacities in men, depends upon, and is entirely owing to the difference there is between them, either in the fabric itself, that is, the greater or lesser exactness in the composure of their frame, or else in the use that is made of it. The brain of a child, newly born, is carte blanche; and, as you have hinted very justly, we have no ideas, which we are not obliged for to our senses. I make no question, but that in this rummaging of the spirits through the brain, in hunting after, joining, separating, changing, and compounding of ideas with inconceivable swiftness, under the superintendency of the soul, the action of thinking consists. The best thing, therefore, we can do to infants after the first month, besides feeding and keeping them from harm, is to make them take in ideas, beginning by the two most useful senses, the sight and hearing; and dispose them to set about this labour of the brain, and by our example encourage them to imitate us in thinking; which, on their side, is very poorly performed at first. Therefore the more an infant in health is talked to and jumbled about, the better it is for it, at least, for the first two years; and for its attendance in this early education, to the wisest matron in the world, I would prefer an active young wench, whose tongue never stands still, that should run about, and never cease diverting and playing with it whilst it was awake; and where people can afford it, two or three of them, to relieve one another when they are tired, are better than one.

Hor. Then you think children reap great benefit from the nonsensical chat of nurses?

Cleo. It is of inestimable use to them, and teaches them to think, as well as speak, much sooner and better, than with equal aptitude of parts they would do without. The business is to make them exert those faculties, and keep infants continually employed about them; for the time which is lost then, is never to be retrieved.

Hor. Yet we seldom remember any thing of what we saw or heard, before we were two years old: then what would be lost, if children should not hear all that impertinence?

Cleo. As iron is to be hammered whilst it is hot and ductile, so children are to be taught when they are young: as the flesh and every tube and membrane about them, are then tenderer, and will yield sooner to slight impressions, than afterwards; so many of their bones are but cartilages, and the brain itself is much softer, and in a manner fluid. This is the reason, that it cannot so well retain the images it receives, as it does afterwards, when the substance of it comes to be of a better consistence. But as the first images are lost, so they are continually succeeded by new ones; and the brain at first serves as a slate to cypher, or a sampler to work upon. What infants should chiefly learn, is the performance itself, the exercise of thinking, and to contract a habit of disposing, and with ease and agility managing the images retained, to the purpose intended; which is never attained better than whilst the matter is yielding, and the organs are most flexible and supple. So they but exercise themselves in thinking and speaking, it is no matter what they think on, or what they say, that is inoffensive. In sprightly infants, we soon see by their eyes the efforts they are making to imitate us, before they are able; and that they try at this exercise of the brain, and make essays to think, as well as they do to hammer out words, we may know from the incoherence of their actions, and the strange absurdities they utter: but as there are more degrees of thinking well, than there are of speaking plain, the first is of the greatest consequence.

Hor. I wonder you should talk of teaching, and lay so great a stress on a thing that comes so naturally to us, as thinking: no action is performed with greater velocity by every body: as quick as thought, is a proverb, and in less than a moment a stupid peasant may remove his ideas from London to Japan, as easily as the greatest wit.

Cleo. Yet there is nothing, in which men differ so immensely from one another, as they do in the exercise of this faculty: the differences between them in height, bulk, strength, and beauty, are trifling in comparison to that which I speak of; and there is nothing in the world more valuable, or more plainly perceptible in persons, than a happy dexterity of thinking. Two men may have equal knowledge, and yet the one shall speak as well off-hand, as the other can after two hours study.

Hor. I take it for granted, that no man would study two hours for a speech, if he knew how to make it in less; and therefore I cannot see what reason you have to suppose two such persons to be of equal knowledge.

Cleo. There is a double meaning in the word knowing, which you seem not to attend to. There is a great difference between knowing a violin when you see it, and knowing how to play upon it. The knowledge I speak of is of the first sort; and if you consider it in that sense, you must be of my opinion; for no study can fetch any thing out of the brain that is not there. Suppose you conceive a short epistle in three minutes, which another, who can make letters and join them together as fast as yourself, is yet an hour about, though both of you write the same thing, it is plain to me, that the slow person knows as much as you do; at least it does not appear that he knows less. He has received the same images, but he cannot come at them, or at least not dispose them in that order, so soon as yourself. When we see two exercises of equal goodness, either in prose or verse, if the one is made ex tempore, and we are sure of it, and the other has cost two days labour, the author of the first is a person of finer natural parts than the other, though their knowledge, for ought we know, is the same. You see, then, the difference between knowledge, as it signifies the treasure of images received, and knowledge, or rather skill, to find out those images when we want them, and work them readily to our purpose.

Hor. When we know a thing, and cannot readily think of it, or bring it to mind, I thought that was the fault of the memory.

Cleo. So it may be in part: but there are men of prodigious reading, that have likewise great memories, who judge ill, and seldom say any thing a propos, or say it when it is too late. Among the belluones librorum, the cormorants of books, there are wretched reasoners, that have canine appetites, and no digestion. What numbers of learned fools do we not meet with in large libraries; from whose works it is evident, that knowledge must have lain in their heads, as furniture at an upholder’s; and the treasure of the brain was a burden to them instead of an ornament! All this proceeds from a defect in the faculty of thinking; an unskilfulness, and want of aptitude in managing, to the best advantage, the ideas we have received. We see others, on the contrary, that have very fine sense, and no literature at all. The generality of women are quicker of invention, and more ready at repartee, than the men, with equal helps of education; and it is surprising to see, what a considerable figure some of them make in conversation, when we consider the small opportunities they have had of acquiring knowledge.

Hor. But sound judgment is a great rarity among them.

Cleo. Only for want of practice, application, and assiduity. Thinking on abstruse matters, is not their province in life; and as the stations they are commonly placed in find them other employment; but there is no labour of the brain which women are not as capable of performing, at least as well as the men, with the same assistance, if they set about, and persevere in it: sound judgment is no more than the result of that labour: he that uses himself to take things to pieces, to compare them together, to consider them abstractly and impartially; that is, he who of two propositions he is to examine seems not to care which is true; he that lays the whole stress of his mind on every part alike, and puts the same thing in all the views it can be seen in: he, I say, that employs himself most often in this exercise, is most likely cæteris paribus to acquire what we call a sound judgment. The workmanship in the make of women seems to be more elegant, and better finished: the features are more delicate, the voice is sweeter, the whole outside of them is more curiously wove, than they are in men; and the difference in the skin between theirs and ours is the same, as there is between fine cloth and coarse. There is no reason to imagine, that nature should have been more neglectful of them out of sight, than she has where we can trace her; and not have taken the same care of them in the formation, of the brain, as to the nicety of the structure, and superior accuracy in the fabric, which is so visible in the rest of their frame.

Hor. Beauty is their attribute, as strength is ours.

Cleo. How minute soever those particles of the brain are, that contain the several images, and are assisting in the operation of thinking, there must be a difference in the justness, the symmetry, and exactness of them between one person and another, as well as there is in the grosser parts: what the women excel us in, then, is the goodness of the instrument, either in the harmony or pliableness of the organs, which must be very material in the art of thinking, and is the only thing that deserves the name of natural parts, since the aptitude I have spoke of, depending upon exercise, is notoriously acquired.

Hor. As the workmanship in the brain is rather more curious in women than it is in men, so, in sheep and oxen, dogs and horses, I suppose it is infinitely coarser.

Cleo. We have no reason to think otherwise,

Hor. But after all, that self, that part of us that wills and wishes, that chooses one thing rather than another, must be incorporeal: For if it is matter, it must either be one single particle, which I can almost feel it is not, or a combination of many, which is more than inconceivable.

Cleo. I do not deny what you say; and that the principle of thought and action is inexplicable in all creatures I have hinted already: But its being incorporeal does not mend the matter, as to the difficulty of explaining or conceiving it. That there must be a mutual contact between this principle, whatever it is, and the body itself, is what we are certain of à posteriori; and a reciprocal action upon each other, between an immaterial substance and matter, is as incomprehensible to human capacity, as that thought should be the result of matter and motion.

Hor. Though many other animals seem to be endued with thought, there is no creature we are acquainted with, besides man, that shows or seems to feel a consciousness of his thinking.

Cleo. It is not easy to determine what instincts, properties, or capacities other creatures are either possessed or destitute of, when those qualifications fall not under our senses: But it is highly probable, that the principal and most necessary parts of the machine are less elaborate in animals, that attain to all the perfection they are capable of in three, four, five, or six years at furthest, than they are in a creature that hardly comes to maturity, its full growth and strength in five and twenty. The consciousness of a man of fifty, that he is the same man that did such a thing at twenty, and was once the boy that had such and such masters, depends wholly upon the memory, and can never be traced to the bottom: I mean, that no man remembers any thing of himself, or what was transacted before he was two years old, when he was but a novice in the art of thinking, and the brain was not yet of a due consistence to retain long the images it received: But this remembrance, how far soever it may reach, gives us no greater surety of ourselves, than we should have of another that had been brought up with us, and never above a week or a month out of sight. A mother, when her son is thirty years old, has more reason to know that he is the same whom she brought into the world than himself; and such a one, who daily minds her son, and remembers the alterations of his features from time to time, is more certain of him that he was not changed in the cradle, than she can be of herself. So that all we can know of this consciousness, is, that it consists in, or is the result of the running and rummaging of the spirits through all the mazes of the brain, and their looking there for facts concerning ourselves: He that has lost his memory, though otherwise in perfect health, cannot think better than a fool, and is no more conscious that he is the same he was a-year ago, than he is of a man whom he has known but a fortnight. There are several degrees of losing our memory; but he who has entirely lost it becomes, ipso facto, an idiot.

Hor. I am conscious of having been the occasion of our rambling a great way from the subject we were upon, but I do not repent of it: What you have said of the economy of the brain, and the mechanical influence of thought upon the grosser parts, is a noble theme for contemplation on the infinite unutterable wisdom with which the various instincts are so visibly planted in all animals, to fit them for the respective purposes they were designed for; and every appetite is so wonderfully interwove with the very substance of their frame. Nothing could be more seasonable, after you had showed me the origin of politeness, and in the management of self-liking, set forth the excellency of our species beyond all other animals so conspicuously in the superlative docility and indefatigable industry, by which all multitudes are capable of drawing innumerable benefits, as well for the ease and comfort, as the welfare and safety of congregate bodies, from a most stubborn and an unconquerable passion, which, in its nature, seems to be destructive to sociableness and society, and never fails, in untaught men, to render them insufferable to one another.

Cleo. By the same method of reasoning from facts à posteriori, that has laid open to us the nature and usefulness of self-liking, all the rest of the passions may easily be accounted for, and become intelligible. It is evident, that the necessaries of life stand not every where ready dished up before all creatures; therefore they have instincts that prompt them to look out for those necessaries, and teach them how to come at them. The zeal and alacrity to gratify their appetites, is always proportioned to the strength, and the degree of force with which those instincts work upon every creature: But, considering the disposition of things upon earth, and the multiplicity of animals that have all their own wants to supply, it must be obvious, that these attempts of creatures, to obey the different calls of nature, will be often opposed and frustrated, and that, in many animals, they would seldom meet with success, if every individual was not endued with a passion, that, summoning all his strength, inspired him with a transporting eagerness to overcome the obstacles that hinder him in his great work of self-preservation. The passion I describe is called anger. How a creature possessed of this passion and self-liking, when he sees others enjoy what he wants, should be affected with envy, can likewise be no mystery. After labour, the most savage, and the most industrious creature seeks rest: Hence we learn, that all of them are furnished, more or less, with a love of ease: Exerting their strength tires them; and the loss of spirits, experience teaches us, is best repaired by food and sleep. We see that creatures, who, in their way of living, must meet with the greatest opposition, have the greatest share of anger, and are born with offensive arms. If this anger was to employ a creature always, without consideration of the danger he exposed himself to, he would soon be destroyed: For this reason, they are all endued with fear; and the lion himself turns tail, if the hunters are armed, and too numerous. From what we observe in the behaviour of brutes, we have reason to think, that among the more perfect animals, those of the same species have a capacity, on many occasions, to make their wants known to one another; and we are sure of several, not only that they understand one another, but likewise that they may be made to understand us. In comparing our species with that of other animals, when we consider the make of man, and the qualifications that are obvious in him, his superior capacity in the faculties of thinking and reflecting beyond other creatures, his being capable of learning to speak, and the usefulness of his hands and fingers, there is no room to doubt, that he is more fit for society than any other animal we know.

Hor. Since you wholly reject my Lord Shaftsbury’s system, I wish you would give me your opinion at large concerning society, and the sociableness of man; and I will hearken to you with great attention.

Cleo. The cause of sociableness in man, that is, his fitness for society, is no such abstruse matter: A person of middling capacity, that has some experience, and a tolerable knowledge of human nature, may soon find it out, if his desire of knowing the truth be sincere, and he will look for it without prepossession; but most people that have treated on this subject, had a turn to serve, and a cause in view, which they were resolved to maintain. It is very unworthy of a philosopher to say, as Hobbes did, that man is born unfit for society, and allege no better reason for it, than the incapacity that infants come into the world with; but some of his adversaries have as far overshot the mark, when they asserted, that every thing which man can attain to, ought to be esteemed as a cause of his fitness for society.

Hor. But is there in the mind of man a natural affection, that prompts him to love his species beyond what other animals have for theirs; or, are we born with hatred and aversion, that makes us wolves and bears to one another?

Cleo. I believe neither. From what appears to us in human affairs, and the works of nature, we have more reason to imagine, that the desire, as well as aptness of man to associate, do not proceed from his love to others, than we have to believe that a mutual affection of the planets to one another, superior to what they feel to stars more remote, is not the true cause why they keep always moving together in the same solar system.

Hor. You do not believe that the stars have any love for one another, I am sure: Then why more reason?

Cleo. Because there are no phenomena plainly to contradict this love of the planets; and we meet with thousands every day to convince us, that man centres every thing in himself, and neither loves nor hates, but for his own sake. Every individual is a little world by itself, and all creatures, as far as their understanding and abilities will let them, endeavour to make that self happy: This, in all of them, is the continual labour, and seems to be the whole design of life. Hence it follows, that in the choice of things, men must be determined by the perception they have of happiness; and no person can commit, or set about an action, which, at that then present time, seems not to be the best to him.

Hor. What will you then say to, video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor?

Cleo. That only shows the turpitude of our inclinations. But men may say what they please: Every motion in a free agent, which he does not approve of, is either convulsive, or it is not his; I speak of those that are subject to the will. When two things are left to a person’s choice, it is a demonstration that he thinks that most eligible which he chooses, how contradictory, impertinent, or pernicious soever his reason for choosing it may be: Without this, there could be no voluntary suicide; and it would be injustice to punish men for their crimes.

Hor. I believe every body endeavours to be pleased; but it is inconceivable that creatures of the same species should differ so much from one another, as men do in their notions of pleasure; and that some of them should take delight in what is the greatest aversion to others: All aim at happiness; but the question is, Where is it to be found?

Cleo. It is with complete felicity in this world, as it is with the philosopher’s stone: Both have been sought after many different ways, by wise men as well as fools, though neither of them has been obtained hitherto: But in searching after either, diligent inquirers have often stumbled by chance on useful discoveries of things they did not look for, and which human sagacity, labouring with design à priori, never would have detected. Multitudes of our species may, in any habitable part of the globe, assist one another in a common defence, and be raised into a politic body, in which men shall live comfortably together for many centuries, without being acquainted with a thousand things, that if known, would every one of them be instrumental to render the happiness of the public more complete, according to the common notions men have of happiness. In one part of the world, we have found great and flourishing nations that knew nothing of ships; and in others, traffic by sea had been in use above two thousand years, and navigation had received innumerable improvements, before they knew how to sail by the help of the loadstone: It would be ridiculous to allege this piece of knowledge, either as a reason why man first chose to go to sea, or as an argument to prove his natural capacity for maritime affairs. To raise a garden, it is necessary that we should have a soil and a climate fit for that purpose. When we have these, we want nothing besides patience, but the seeds of vegetables and proper culture. Fine walks and canals, statues, summer-houses, fountains, and cascades, are great improvements on the delights of nature; but they are not essential to the existence of a garden. All nations must have had mean beginnings; and it is in those, the infancy of them, that the sociableness of man is as conspicuous as it can be ever after. Man is called a sociable creature chiefly for two reasons: First, because it is commonly imagined that he is naturally more fond and desirous of society, than any other creature. Secondly, because it is manifest, that associating in men turns to better account than it possibly could do in other animals, if they were to attempt it.

Hor. But why do you say of the first, that it is commonly imagined; is it not true then?

Cleo. I have a very good reason for this caution. All men born in society, are certainly more desirous of it than any other animal; but whether man be naturally so, that is a question: But, if he was, it is no excellency, nothing to brag of: The love man has for his ease and security, and his perpetual desire of meliorating his condition, must be sufficient motives to make him fond of society, concerning the necessitous and helpless condition of his nature.

Hor. Do not you fall into the same error, which, you say, Hobbes has been guilty of, when you talk of man’s necessitous and helpless condition?

Cleo. Not at all; I speak of men and women full grown; and the more extensive their knowledge is, the higher their quality, and the greater their possessions are, the more necessitous and helpless they are in their nature. A nobleman of twenty-five or thirty thousand pounds a-year, that has three or four coaches and six, and above fifty people to serve him, is in his person considered singly, abstract from what he possesses, more necessitous than an obscure man that has but fifty pounds a-year, and is used to walk a-foot; so a lady, who never stuck a pin in herself, and is dressed and undressed from head to foot like a jointed baby by her woman, and the assistance of another maid or two, is a more helpless creature than doll the diary-maid, who, all the winter long, dresses herself in the dark in less time than the other bestows in placing of her patches.

Hor. But is the desire of meliorating our condition which you named, so general, that no man is without it?

Cleo. Not one that can be called a sociable creature; and I believe this to be as much a characteristic of our species as any can be named: For there is not a man in the world, educated in society, who, if he could compass it by wishing, would not have something added to, taken from, or altered in his person, possessions, circumstances, or any part of the society he belongs to. This is what is not to be perceived in any creature but man; whose great industry in supplying what he calls his wants, could never have been known so well as it is, if it had not been for the unreasonableness, as well as multiplicity of his desires. From all which, it is manifest, that the most civilized people stand most in need of society, and consequently, none less than savages. The second reason for which I said man was called sociable, is, that associating together turned to better account in our species than it would do in any other, if they were to try it. To find out the reason of this, we must search into human nature for such qualifications as we excel all other animals in, and which the generality of men are endued with, taught or untaught: But in doing this, we should neglect nothing that is observable in them, from their most early youth to their extreme old age.

Hor. I cannot see why you use this precaution, of taking in the whole age of man; would it not be sufficient to mind those qualifications which he is possessed of, when he is come to the height of maturity, or his greatest perfection?

Cleo. A considerable part of what is called docility in creatures, depends upon the pliableness of the parts, and their fitness to be moved with facility, which are either entirely lost, or very much impaired, when they are full grown. There is nothing in which our species so far surpasses all others, than in the capacity of acquiring the faculty of thinking and speaking well: that this is a peculiar property belonging to our nature is very certain, yet it is as manifest, that this capacity vanishes, when we come to maturity, if till then it has been neglected. The term of life likewise, that is commonly enjoyed by our species, being longer than it is in most other animals, we have a prerogative above them in point of time; and man has a greater opportunity of advancing in wisdom, though not to be acquired but by his own experience, than a creature that lives but half his age, though it had the same capacity. A man of threescore, cæteris paribus, knows better what is to be embraced or avoided in life, than a man of thirty. What Mitio, in excusing the follies of youth, said to his brother Demea, in the Adelphi, ad omnia alia Ætate sapimus rectius, holds among savages, as well as among philosophers. It is the concurrence of these, with other properties, that together compose the sociableness of man.

Hor. But why may not the love of our species be named, as one of these properties?

Cleo. First, because, as I have said already, it does not appear, that we have it beyond other animals: secondly, because it is out of the question: for if we examine into the nature of all bodies politic, we shall find, that no dependance is ever had, or stress laid on any such affection, either for the raising or maintaining of them.

Hor. But the epithet itself, the signification of the word, imports this love to one another; as is manifest from the contrary. One who loves solitude, is averse to company, or of a singular, reserved, and sullen temper, is the very reverse of a sociable man.

Cleo. When we compare some men to others, the word, I own, is often used in that sense: but when we speak of a quality peculiar to our species, and say, that man is a sociable creature, the word implies no more, than that in our nature we have a certain fitness, by which great multitudes of us cooperating, may be united and formed into one body; that endued with, and, able to make use of, the strength, skill and prudence of every individual, shall govern itself, and act on all emergencies, as if it was animated by one soul, and actuated by one will. I am willing to allow, that among the motives that prompt man to enter into society, there is a desire which he has naturally after company; but he has it for his own sake, in hopes of being the better for it; and he would never wish for either company or any thing else, but for some advantage or other he proposes to himself from it. What I deny is, that man naturally has such a desire, out of a fondness of his species, superior to what other animals have for theirs. It is a compliment which we commonly pay to ourselves, but there is no more reality in it, than in our being one another’s humble servants; and I insist upon it, that this pretended love of our species, and natural affection we are said to have for one another, beyond other animals, is neither instrumental to the erecting of societies, nor ever trusted to in our prudent commerce with one another when associated, any more than if it had no existence. The undoubted basis of all societies is government: this truth, well examined into, will furnish us with all the reasons of man’s excellency as to sociableness. It is evident from it, that creatures, to be raised into a community, must, in the first place, be governable: This is a qualification that requires fear, and some degree of understanding; for a creature not susceptible of fear, is never to be governed; and the more sense and courage it has, the more refractory and untractable it will be, without the influence of that useful passion: and again, fear without understanding puts creatures only upon avoiding the danger dreaded, without considering what will become of themselves afterwards: so wild birds will beat out their brains against the cage, before they will save their lives by eating. There is a great difference between being submissive, and being governable; for he who barely submits to another, only embraces what he dislikes, to shun what he dislikes more; and we may be very submissive, and be of no use to the person we submit to: but to be governable, implies an endeavour to please, and a willingness to exert ourselves in behalf of the person that governs: but love beginning every where at home, no creature can labour for others, and be easy long, whilst self is wholly out of the question: therefore a creature is then truly governable, when reconciled to submission, it has learned to construe his servitude to his own advantage; and rests satisfied with the account it finds for itself, in the labour it performs for others. Several kind of animals are, or may, with little trouble, be made thus governable; but there is not one creature so tame, that it can be made to serve its own species, but man; yet without this he could never have been made sociable.

Hor. But was not man by nature designed for society?

Cleo. We know from revelation that man was made for society.

Hor. But if it had not been revealed, or you had been a Chinese, or a Mexican, what would you answer me as a philosopher?

Cleo. That nature had designed man for society, as she has made grapes for wine.

Hor. To make wine is an invention of man, as it is to press oil from olives and other vegetables, and to make ropes of hemp.

Cleo. And so it is to form a society of independent multitudes; and there is nothing that requires greater skill.

Hor. But is not the sociableness of man the work of nature, or rather of the author of nature, Divine Providence?

Cleo. Without doubt: But so is the innate virtue and peculiar aptitude of every thing; that grapes are fit to make wine, and barley and water to make other liquors, is the work of Providence; but it is human sagacity that finds out the uses we make of them: all the other capacities of man likewise, as well as his sociableness, are evidently derived from God, who made him: every thing therefore that our industry can produce or compass, is originally owing to the Author of our being. But when we speak of the works of nature, to distinguish them from those of art, we mean such as were brought forth without our concurrence. So nature, in due season produces peas; but in England you cannot have them green in January, without art and uncommon industry. What nature designs, she executes herself: there are creatures, of whom it is visible, that nature has designed them for society, as is most obvious in bees, to whom she has given instincts for that purpose, as appears from the effects. We owe our being and every thing else to the great Author of the universe; but as societies cannot subsist without his preserving power, so they cannot exist without the concurrence of human wisdom: all of them must have a dependance either on mutual compact, or the force of the strong exerting itself upon the patience of the weak. The difference between the works of art, and those of nature, is so immense, that it is impossible not to know them asunder. Knowing, à priori, belongs to God only, and Divine Wisdom acts with an original certainty, of which, what we call demonstration, is but an imperfect borrowed copy. Amongst the works of nature, therefore, we see no trials nor essays; they are all complete, and such as she would have them, at the first production; and, where she has not been interrupted, highly finished, beyond the reach of our understanding, as well as senses. Wretched man, on the contrary is sure of nothing, his own existence not excepted, but from reasoning, à posteriori. The consequence of this is, that the works of art and human invention are all very lame and defective, and most of them pitifully mean at first: our knowledge is advanced by slow degrees, and some arts and sciences require the experience of many ages, before they can be brought to any tolerable perfection. Have we any reason to imagine that the society of bees, that sent forth the first swarm, made worse wax or honey than any of their posterity have produced since? And again the laws of nature are fixed and unalterable: in all her orders and regulations there is a stability, no where to be met with in things of human contrivance and approbation;

Quid placet aut odio est, quod non mutabile credas?

Is it probable, that amongst the bees, there has ever been any other form of government than what every swarm submits to now? What an infinite variety of speculations, what ridiculous schemes have not been proposed amongst men, on the subject of government; what dissentions in opinion, and what fatal quarrels has it not been the occasion of! and which is the best form of it, is a question to this day undecided. The projects, good and bad, that have been stated for the benefit, and more happy establishment of society, are innumerable; but how short sighted is our sagacity, how fallible human judgment! What has seemed highly advantageous to mankind in one age, has often been found to be evidently detrimental by the succeeding; and even among contemporaries, what is revered in one country, is the abomination of another. What changes have ever bees made in their furniture or architecture? have they ever made cells that were not sexangular, or added any tools to those which nature furnished them with at the beginning? What mighty structures have been raised, what prodigious works have been performed by the great nations of the world! Toward all these nature has only found materials: the quarry yields marble, but it is the sculptor that makes a statue of it. To have the infinite variety of iron tools that have been invented, nature has given us nothing but the oar, which she has hid in the bowels of the earth.

Hor. But the capacity of the workmen, the inventors of arts, and those that improved them, has had a great share in bringing those labours to perfection; and their genius they had from nature.

Cleo. So far as it depended upon the make of their frame, the accuracy of the machine they had, and no further; but this I have allowed already; and if you remember what I have said on this head, you will find, that the part which nature contributed toward the skill and patience of every single person, that had a hand in those works, was very inconsiderable.

Hor. If I have not misunderstood you, you would insinuate two things: First, that the fitness of man for society, beyond other animals, is something real; but that it is hardly perceptible in individuals, before great numbers of them are joined together, and artfully managed. Secondly, that this real something, this sociableness, is a compound that consists in a concurrence of several things, and not in any one palpable quality, that man is endued with, and brutes are destitute of.

Cleo. You are perfectly right: every grape contains a small quantity of juice, and when great heaps of them are squeezed together, they yield a liquor, which by skilful management may be made into wine: but if we consider how necessary fermentation is to the vinosity of the liquor, I mean, how essential is it to its being wine, it will be evident to us, that without great impropriety of speech, it cannot be said, that in every grape there is wine.

Hor. Vinosity, so far as it is the effect of fermentation, is adventitious; and what none of the grapes could ever have received whilst they remained single; and, therefore, if you would compare the sociableness of man to the vinosity of wine, you must show me, that in society there is an equivalent for fermentation; I mean something that individual persons are not actually possessed of, whilst they remain single, and which likewise is palpably adventitious to multitudes when joined together; in the same manner as fermentation is to the juice of grapes, and as necessary and essential to the completing of society as that is, that same fermentation, to procure the vinosity of wine.

Cleo. Such an equivalent is demonstrable in mutual commerce: for if we examine every faculty and qualification, from and for which we judge and pronounce man to be a sociable creature beyond other animals, we shall find, that a very considerable, if not the greatest part of the attribute is acquired, and comes upon multitudes, from their conversing with one another. Fabricando fabri simus. Men become sociable, by living together in society. Natural affection prompts all mothers to take care of the offspring they dare own; so far as to feed and keep them from harm, whilst they are helpless: but where people are poor, and the women have no leisure to indulge themselves in the various expressions of their fondness for their infants, which fondling of them ever increases, they are often very remiss in tending and playing with them; and the more healthy and quiet such children are, the more they are neglected. This want of prattling to, and stirring up the spirits in babes, is often the principal cause of an invincible stupidity, as well as ignorance, when they are grown up; and we often ascribe to natural incapacity, what is altogether owing to the neglect of this early instruction. We have so few examples of human creatures, that never conversed with their own species, that it is hard to guess, what man would be, entirely untaught; but we have good reason to believe, that the faculty of thinking would be very imperfect in such a one, if we consider, that the greatest docility can be of no use to a creature, whilst it has nothing to imitate, nor any body to teach it.

Hor. Philosophers therefore are very wisely employed, when they discourse about the laws of nature; and pretend to determine what a man in the state of nature would think, and which way he would reason concerning himself and the creation, uninstructed.

Cleo. Thinking, and reasoning justly, as Mr. Locke has rightly observed, require time and practice. Those that have not used themselves to thinking, but just on their present necessities, make poor work of it, when they try beyond that. In remote parts, and such as are least inhabited, we shall find our species come nearer the state of nature, than it does in and near great cities and considerable towns, even in the most civilized nations. Among the most ignorant of such people, you may learn the truth of my assertion; talk to them about any thing, that requires abstract thinking, and there is not one in fifty that will understand you, any more than a horse would; and yet many of them are useful labourers, and cunning enough to tell lies and deceive. Man is a rational creature, but he is not endued with reason when he comes into the world; nor can he afterwards put it on when he pleases, at once, as he may a garment. Speech likewise is a characteristic of our species, but no man is born with it; and a dozen generations proceeding from two savages would not produce any tolerable language; nor have we reason to believe, that a man could be taught to speak after five-and-twenty, if he had never heard others before that time.

Hor. The necessity of teaching, whilst the organs are supple, and easily yield to impression, which you have spoke of before, I believe is of great weight, both in speaking and thinking; but could a dog, or a monkey, ever be taught to speak?

Cleo. I believe not; but I do not think, that creatures of another species had ever the pains bestowed upon them, that some children have, before they can pronounce one word. Another thing to be considered is, that though some animals perhaps live longer than we do, there is no species that remains young so long as ours; and besides what we owe to the superior aptitude to learn, which we have from the great accuracy of our frame and inward structure, we are not a little indebted for our docility, to the slowness and long gradation of our increase, before we are full grown: the organs in other creatures grow stiff, before ours are come to half their perfection.

Hor. So that in the compliment we make to our species, of its being endued with speech and sociableness, there is no other reality, than that by care and industry men may be taught to speak, and be made sociable, if the discipline begins when they are very young.

Cleo. Not otherwise. A thousand of our species all grown up, that is above five-and-twenty, could never be made sociable, if they had been brought up wild, and were all strangers to one another.

Hor. I believe they could not be civilized, if their education began so late.

Cleo. But I mean barely sociable, as it is the epithet peculiar to man; that is, it would be impossible by art to govern them, any more than so many wild horses, unless you had two or three times that number to watch and keep them in awe. Therefore it is highly probable, that most societies, and beginnings of nations, were formed in the manner Sir William Temple supposes it; but nothing near so fast: and I wonder how a man of his unquestionable good sense, could form an idea of justice, prudence, and wisdom, in an untaught creature; or think of a civilized man, before there was any civil society, and even before men had commenced to associate.

Hor. I have read it, I am sure, but I do not remember what it is you mean.

Cleo. He is just behind you; the third shelf from the bottom; the first volume: pray reach it me, it is worth your hearing.——It is in his Essay on Government. Here it is. “For if we consider man multiplying his kind by the birth of many children, and his cares by providing even necessary food for them, until they are able to do it for themselves (which happens much later to the generations of men, and makes a much longer dependence of children upon parents, than we can observe among any other creatures); if we consider not only the cares, but the industry he is forced to, for the necessary sustenance of his helpless brood, either in gathering the natural fruits, or raising those which are purchased with labour and toil: if he be forced for supply of this stock, to catch the tamer creatures, and hunt the wilder, sometimes to exercise his courage in defending his little family, and fighting with the strong and savage beasts (that would prey upon him, as he does upon the weak and mild): if we suppose him disposing with discretion and order, whatever he gets among his children, according to each of their hunger or need; sometimes laying up for to-morrow, what was more than enough for to-day; at other times pinching himself, rather than suffering any of them should want.——”

Hor. This man is no savage, or untaught creature; he is fit to be a justice of peace.

Cleo. Pray let me go on, I shall only read this paragraph: “And as each of them grows up, and able to share in the common support, teaching them, both by lesson and example, what he is now to do, as the son of his family, and what hereafter, as the father of another; instructing them all, what qualities are good, and what are ill, for their health and life, or common society (which will certainly comprehend whatever is generally esteemed virtue or vice among men), cherishing and encouraging dispositions to the good, disfavouring and punishing those to the ill: And lastly, among the various accidents of life, lifting up his eyes to Heaven, when the earth affords him no relief; and having recourse to a higher and a greater nature, whenever he finds the frailty of his own: we must needs conclude, that the children of this man cannot fail of being bred up with a great opinion of his wisdom, his goodness, his valour, and his piety. And if they see constant plenty in the family, they believe well of his fortune too.”

Hor. Did this man spring out of the earth, I wonder, or did he drop from the sky?

Cleo. There is no manner of absurdity in supposing——.

Hor. The discussion of this would too far engage us: I am sure, I have tired you already with my impertinence.

Cleo. You have pleased me extremely: the questions you have asked have all been very pertinent, and such as every man of sense would make, that had not made it his business to think on these things. I read that passage on purpose to you, to make some use of it; but if you are weary of the subject, I will not trespass upon your patience any longer.

Hor. You mistake me; I begin to be fond of the subject: but before we talk of it any further, I have a mind to run over that Essay again; it is a great while since I read it: and after that I shall be glad to resume the discourse; the sooner the better. I know you are a lover of fine fruit, if you will dine with me to-morrow, I will give you an ananas.

Cleo. I love your company so well, that I can refuse no opportunity of enjoying it.

Hor. A revoir then.

Cleo. Your servant.

THE FIFTH
DIALOGUE
BETWEEN
HORATIO AND CLEOMENES.

CLEOMENES.

It excels every thing; it is extremely rich without being luscious, and I know nothing to which I can compare the taste of it: to me it seems to be a collection of different fine flavours, that puts me in mind of several delicious fruits, which yet are all outdone by it.

Hor. I am glad it pleased you.

Cleo. The scent of it likewise is wonderfully reviving. As you was paring it, a fragrancy, I thought, perfumed the room that was perfectly cordial.

Hor. The inside of the rhind has an oiliness of no disagreeable smell, that upon handling of it sticks to ones fingers for a considerable time; for though now I have washed and wiped my hands, the flavour of it will not be entirely gone from them by to-morrow morning.

Cleo. This was the third I ever tasted of our own growth; the production of them in these northern climates, is no small instance of human industry, and our improvements in gardening. It is very elegant to enjoy the wholesome air of temperate regions, and at the same time be able to raise fruit to its highest maturity, that naturally requires the sun of the Torrid Zone.

Hor. It is easy enough to procure heat, but the great art consists in finding out, and regulating the degrees of it at pleasure; without which it would be impossible to ripen an ananas here, and to compass this with that exactness, as it is done by the help of thermometers, was certainly a fine invention.

Cleo. I do not care to drink any more.

Hor. Just as you please; otherwise I was going to name a health, which would not have come mal à propos.

Cleo. Whose is that, pray?

Hor. I was thinking on the man to whom we are in a great measure obliged for the production and culture of the exotic, we were speaking of, in this kingdom; Sir Matthew Decker, the first ananas or pine-apple, that was brought to perfection in England, grew in his garden at Richmond.

Cleo. With all my heart; let us finish with that; he is a beneficent, and, I believe, a very honest man.

Hor. It would not be easy to name another, who, with the same knowledge of the world, and capacity of getting money, is equally disinterested and inoffensive.

Cleo. Have you considered the things we discoursed of yesterday?

Hor. I have thought on nothing else since I saw you: This morning I went through the whole Essay, and with more attention than I did formerly: I like it very well; only that passage which you read yesterday, and some others to the same purpose, I cannot reconcile with the account we have of man’s origin from the Bible: Since all are descendants from Adam, and consequently of Noah and his posterity, how came savages into the world?

Cleo. The history of the world, as to very ancient times, is very imperfect: What devastations have been made by war, by pestilence, and by famine; what distress some men have been drove to, and how strangely our race has been dispersed and scattered over the earth since the flood, we do not know.

Hor. But persons that are well instructed themselves, never fail of teaching their children; and we have no reason to think, that knowing, civilized men, as the sons of Noah were, should have neglected their offspring; but it is altogether incredible, as all are descendants from them, that succeeding generations, instead of increasing in experience and wisdom, should learn backward, and still more and more abandon their broods in such a manner, as to degenerate at last to what you call the state of nature.

Cleo. Whether you intend this as a sarcasm or not, I do not know; but you have raised no difficulty that can render the truth of the sacred history suspected. Holy writ has acquainted us with the miraculous origin of our species, and the small remainder of it after the deluge: But it is far from informing us of all the revolutions that have happened among mankind since: The Old Testament hardly touches upon any particulars that had no relation to the Jews; neither does Moses pretend to give a full account of every thing that happened to, or was transacted by our first parents: He names none of Adam’s daughters, and takes no notice of several things that must have happened in the beginning of the world, as is evident from Cain’s building a city, and several other circumstances; from which it is plain, that Moses meddled with nothing but what was material, and to his purpose; which, in that part of his history, was to trace the descent of the Patriarchs, from the first man. But that there are savages is certain: Most nations of Europe have met with wild men and women in several parts of the world, that were ignorant of the use of letters, and among whom they could observe no rule or government.

Hor. That there are savages, I do not question; and from the great number of slaves that are yearly fetched from Africa, it is manifest, that in some parts there must be vast swarms of people, that have not yet made a great hand of their sociableness: But how to derive them from all the sons of Noah, I own, is past my skill.

Cleo. You find it as difficult to account for the loss of the many fine arts, and useful inventions of the ancients, which the world has certainly sustained. But the fault I find with Sir William Temple, is in the character of his savage. Just reasoning, and such an orderly way of proceeding, as he makes him act in, are unnatural to a wild man: In such a one, the passions must be boisterous, and continually jostling, and succeeding one another; no untaught man could have a regular way of thinking, or pursue any one design with steadiness.

Hor. You have strange notions of our species: But has not a man, by the time that he comes to maturity, some notions of right and wrong, that are natural?

Cleo. Before I answer your question, I would have you consider, that, among savages, there must be always a great difference as to the wildness or tameness of them. All creatures naturally love their offspring whilst they are helpless, and so does man: But in the savage state, men are more liable to accidents and misfortunes than they are in society, as to the rearing of their young ones; and, therefore, the children of savages must very often be put to their shifts, so as hardly to remember, by the time that they are grown up, that they had any parents. If this happens too early, and they are dropt or lost before they are four or five years of age, they must perish; either die for want, or be devoured by beasts of prey, unless some other creature takes care of them. Those orphans that survive, and become their own masters very young, must, when they are come to maturity, be much wilder than others, that have lived many years under the tuition of parents.

Hor. But would not the wildest man you can imagine, have from nature some thoughts of justice and injustice?

Cleo. Such a one, I believe, would naturally, without much thinking in the case, take every thing to be his own that he could lay his hands on.

Hor. Then they would soon be undeceived, if two or three of them met together.

Cleo. That they would soon disagree and quarrel, is highly probable; but I do not believe they ever would be undeceived.

Hor. At this rate, men could never be formed into an aggregate body: How came society into the world?

Cleo. As I told you, from private families; but not without great difficulty, and the concurrence of many favourable accidents; and many generations may pass before there is any likelihood of their being formed into a society.

Hor. That men are formed into societies, we see: But if they are all born with that false notion, and they can never be undeceived, which way do you account for it?

Cleo. My opinion concerning this matter, is this: Self-preservation bids all creatures gratify their appetites, and that of propagating his kind never fails to affect a man in health, many years before he comes to his full growth. If a wild man and a wild woman would meet very young, and live together for fifty years undisturbed, in a mild wholesome climate, where there is plenty of provisions, they might see a prodigious number of descendants: For, in the wild state of nature, man multiplies his kind much faster, than can be allowed of in any regular society: No male at fourteen would be long without a female, if he could get one; and no female of twelve would be refractory, if applied to, or remain long uncourted, if there were men.

Hor. Considering that consanguinity would be no bar among these people, the progeny of two savages might soon amount to hundreds: All this I can grant you; but as parents, no better qualified, could teach their children but little, it would be impossible for them to govern these sons and daughters when they grew up, if none of them had any notions of right or wrong; and society is as far off as ever; the false principle, which you say all men are born with, is an obstacle never to be surmounted.

Cleo. From that false principle, as you call it, the right men naturally claim to every thing they can get, it must follow, that man will look upon his children as his property, and make such use of them as is most consistent with his interest.

Hor. What is the interest of a wild man that pursues nothing with steadiness.

Cleo. The demand of the predominant passion for the time it lasts.

Hor. That may change every moment, and such children would be miserably managed.

Cleo. That is true; but still managed they would be; I mean they would be kept under, and forced to do as they they were bid, at least till they were strong enough to resist. Natural affection would prompt a wild man to love and cherish his child; it would make him provide food, and other necessaries for his son, till he was ten or twelve years old, or perhaps longer: But this affection is not the only passion he has to gratify; if his son provokes him by stubbornness, or doing otherwise than he would have him, this love is suspended; and if his displeasure be strong enough to raise his anger, which is as natural to him as any other passion, it is ten to one but he will knock him down: If he hurts him very much, and the condition he has put his son in, moves his pity, his anger will cease; and, natural affection returning, he will fondle him again, and be sorry for what he has done. Now, if we consider that all creatures hate and endeavour to avoid pain, and that benefits beget love in all that receive them, we shall find, that the consequence of this management would be, that the savage child would learn to love and fear his father: These two passions, together with the esteem which we naturally have for every thing that far excels us, will seldom fail of producing that compound which we call reverence.

Hor. I have it now; you have opened my eyes, and I see the origin of society, as plain as I do that table.

Cleo. I am afraid the prospect is not so clear yet as you imagine.

Hor. Why so? The grand obstacles are removed: Untaught men, it is true, when they are grown up, are never to be governed; and our subjection is never sincere where the superiority of the governor is not very apparent: But both these are obviated; the reverence we have for a person when we are young, is easily continued as long as we live; and where authority is once acknowledged, and that acknowledgment well established, it cannot be a difficult matter to govern. If thus a man may keep up his authority over his children, he will do it still with greater ease over his grand-children: For a child that has the least reverence for his parents, will seldom refuse homage to the person to whom he sees his father pay it. Besides, a man’s pride would be a sufficient motive for him to maintain the authority once gained; and, if some of his progeny proved refractory, he would leave no stone unturned, by the help of the rest to reduce the disobedient. The old man being dead, the authority from him would devolve upon the eldest of his children, and so on.

Cleo. I thought you would go on too fast. If the wild man had understood the nature of things, and been endued with general knowledge, and a language ready made, as Adam was by miracle, what you say might have been easy; but an ignorant creature that knows nothing but what his own experience has taught him, is no more fit to govern than he is fit to teach the mathematics.

Hor. He would not have above one or two children to govern at first; and his experience would increase by degrees, as well as his family. This would require no such consummate knowledge.

Cleo. I do not say it would: An ordinary capacity of a man tolerably well educated, would be sufficient to begin with; but a man who never had been taught to curb any of his passions, would be very unfit for such a task. He would make his children, as soon as they were able, assist him in getting food, and teach them how and where to procure it. Savage children, as they got strength, would endeavour to imitate every action they saw their parents do, and every sound they heard them make; but all the instructions they received, would be confined to things immediately necessary. Savage parents would often take offence at their children, as they grew up, without a cause; and as these increased in years, so natural affection would decrease in the other. The consequence would be, that the children would often suffer for failings that were not their own. Savages would often discover faults in the conduct of what was past; but they would not be able to establish rules for future behaviour, which they would approve of themselves for any continuance; and want of foresight would be an inexhaustible fund for changes in their resolutions. The savage’s wife, as well as himself, would be highly pleased to see their daughters impregnated and bring forth; and they would both take great delight in their grand-children.

Hor. I thought, that in all creatures the natural affection of parents had been confined to their own young ones.

Cleo. It is so in all but man; there is no species but ours, that are so conceited of themselves, as to imagine every thing to be theirs. The desire of dominion is a never-failing consequence of the pride that is common to all men; and which the brat of a savage is as much born with as the son of an emperor. This good opinion we have of ourselves, makes men not only claim a right to their children, but likewise imagine, that they have a great share of jurisdiction over their grandchildren. The young ones of other animals, as soon as they can help themselves, are free; but the authority which parents pretend to have over their children, never ceases: How general and unreasonable this eternal claim is naturally in the heart of man, we may learn from the laws; which, to prevent the usurpation of parents, and rescue children from their dominion, every civil society is forced to make; limiting paternal authority to a certain term of years. Our savage pair would have a double title to their grandchildren, from their undoubted property in each parent of them; and all the progeny being sprung from their own sons and daughters, without intermixture of foreign blood, they would look upon the whole race to be their natural vassals; and I am persuaded, that the more knowledge and capacity of reasoning this first couple acquired, the more just and unquestionable their sovereignty over all their descendants would appear to them, though they should live to see the fifth or sixth generation.

Hor. Is it not strange that nature should send us all into the world with a visible desire after government, and no capacity for it at all?

Cleo. What seems strange to you, is an undeniable instance of Divine Wisdom. For, if all had not been born with this desire, all must have been destitute of it; and multitudes could never have been formed into societies, if some of them had not been possessed of this thirst of dominion. Creatures may commit force upon themselves, they may learn to warp their natural appetites, and divert them from their proper objects: but peculiar instincts, that belong to a whole species, are never to be acquired by art or discipline; and those that are born without them, must remain destitute of them for ever. Ducks run to the water as soon as they are hatched; but you can never make a chicken swim any more than you can teach it to suck.

Hor. I understand you very well. If pride had not been innate to all men, none of them could ever have been ambitious: And as to the capacity of governing, experience shows us, that it is to be acquired; but how to bring society into the world, I know no more than the wild man himself. What you have suggested to me of his unskilfulness, and want of power to govern himself, has quite destroyed all the hopes I had conceived of society from this family. But would religion have no influence upon them? Pray, how came that into the world?

Cleo. From God, by miracle.

Hor. Obscurum per obscurius. I do not understand miracles, that break in upon, and subvert the order of nature; and I have no notion of things that come to pass, en dépit de bon sens, and are such; that judging from sound reason and known experience, all wise men would think themselves mathematically sure that they could never happen.

Cleo. It is certain, that by the word miracle, is meant an interposition of the Divine Power, when it deviates from the common course of nature.

Hor. As when matters, easily combustible, remain whole and untouched in the midst of a fire fiercely burning, or lions in vigour, industriously kept hungry, forbear eating what they are most greedy after. These miracles are strange things.

Cleo. They are not pretended to be otherwise; the etymology of the word imports it; but it is almost as unaccountable, that men should disbelieve them, and pretend to be of a religion that is altogether built upon miracles.

Hor. But when I asked you that general question, why did you confine yourself to revealed religion?

Cleo. Because nothing, in my opinion, deserves the name of religion, that has not been revealed: The Jewish was the first that was national, and the Christian the next.

Hor. But Abraham, Noah, and Adam himself, were no Jews, and yet they had religion.

Cleo. No other than what was revealed to them. God appeared to our first parents, and gave them commands immediately after he had created them: The same intercourse was continued between the Supreme Being and the Patriarchs; but the father of Abraham was an idolater.

Hor. But the Egyptians, the Greeks, and the Romans had religion, as well as the Jews.

Cleo. Their gross idolatry, and abominable worship, I call superstition.

Hor. You may be as partial as you please, but they all called their worship religion, as well as we do ours. You say, man brings nothing with him, but his passions; and when I asked you, how religion came into the world, I meant what is there in man’s nature that is not acquired, from which he has a tendency to religion; what is it that disposes him to it?

Cleo. Fear.

Hor. How! Primus in orbe Deos fecit timor; Are you of that opinion?

Cleo. No man upon earth less: But that noted Epicurean axiom, which irreligious men are so fond of, is a very poor one; and it is silly, as well as impious to say, that fear made a God; you may as justly say, that fear made grass, or the sun and the moon: but when I am speaking of savages, it is not clashing either with good sense, nor the Christian religion, to assert, that, whilst such men are ignorant of the true Deity, and yet very defective in the art of thinking and reasoning, fear is the passion that first gives them an opportunity of entertaining some glimmering notions of an invisible Power; which afterwards, as by practice and experience they grow greater proficients, and become more perfect in the labour of the brain, and the exercise of their highest faculty, will infallibly lead them to the certain knowledge of an Infinite and Eternal Being; whose power and wisdom will always appear the greater, and more stupendous to them, the more they themselves advance in knowledge and penetration, though both should be carried on to a much higher pitch, than it is possible for our limited nature ever to arrive at.

Hor. I beg your pardon for suspecting you; though I am glad it gave you an opportunity of explaining yourself. The word fear, without any addition, sounded very harsh; and even now I cannot conceive how an invisible cause should become the object of a man’s fear, that should be so entirely untaught, as you have made the first savage: which way can any thing invisible, and that affects none of the senses, make an impression upon a wild creature?

Cleo. Every mischief and every disaster that happens to him, of which the cause is not very plain and obvious; excessive heat and cold; wet and drought, that are offensive; thunder and lightning, even when they do no visible hurt; noises in the dark, obscurity itself, and every thing that is frightful and unknown, are all administering and contributing to the establishment of this fear. The wildest man that can be conceived, by the time that he came to maturity, would be wise enough to know, that fruits and other eatables are not to be had, either always, or every where: this would naturally put him upon hoarding, when he had good store: his provision might be spoiled by the rain: he would see that trees were blasted, and yielded not always the same plenty: he might not always be in health, or his young ones might grow sick, and die, without any wounds or external force to be seen. Some of these accidents might at first escape his attention, or only alarm his weak understanding, without occasioning much reflection for some time; but as they come often, he would certainly begin to suspect some invisible cause; and, as his experience increased, be confirmed in his suspicion. It is likewise highly probable, that a variety of different sufferings, would make him apprehend several such causes; and at last induce him to believe, that there was a great number of them, which he had to fear. What would very much contribute to this credulous disposition, and naturally lead him into such a belief, is a false notion we imbibe very early, and which we may observe in infants, as soon as by their looks, their gestures, and the signs they make, they begin to be intelligible to us.

Hor. What is that, pray?

Cleo. All young children seem to imagine, that every thing thinks and feels in the same manner as they do themselves; and, that they generally have this wrong opinion of things inanimate, is evident, from a common practice among them; whenever they labour under any misfortune, which their own wildness, and want of care have drawn upon them. In all such cases, you see them angry at and strike, a table, a chair, the floor, or any thing else, that can seem to have been accessary to their hurting themselves, or the production of any other blunder, they have committed. Nurses we see, in compliance to their frailty, seem to entertain the same ridiculous sentiments; and actually appease wrathful brats, by pretending to take their part: Thus you will often see them very serious, in scolding at and beating, either the real object of the baby’s indignation, or something else, on which the blame of what has happened, may be thrown, with any show of probability. It is not to be imagined, that this natural folly should be so easily cured in a child, that is destitute of all instruction and commerce with his own species, as it is in those that are brought up in society, and hourly improved by conversing with others that are wiser than themselves; and I am persuaded, that a wild man would never get entirely rid of it whilst he lived.

Hor. I cannot think so meanly of human understanding.

Cleo. Whence came the Dryades and Hama-Dryades? How came it ever to be thought impious to cut down, or even to wound large venerable oaks or other stately trees; and what root did the Divinity spring from, which the vulgar, among the ancient heathens, apprehended to be in rivers and fountains?

Hor. From the roguery of designing priests, and other impostors, that invented those lies, and made fables for their own advantage.

Cleo. But still it must have been want of understanding; and a tincture, some remainder of that folly which is discovered in young children, that could induce, or would suffer men to believe those fables. Unless fools actually had frailties, knaves could not make use of them.

Hor. There may be something in it; but, be that as it will, you have owned, that man naturally loves those he receives benefits from; therefore, how comes it, that man, finding all the good things he enjoys to proceed from an invisible cause, his gratitude should not sooner prompt him to be religious, than his fear?

Cleo. There are several substantial reasons, why it does not. Man takes every thing to be his own, which he has from nature: sowing and reaping, he thinks, deserve a crop, and whatever he has the least hand in, is always reckoned to be his. Every art, and every invention, as soon as we know them, are our right and property; and whatever we perform by the assistance of them, is, by the courtesy of the species to itself, deemed to be our own. We make use of fermentation, and all the chemistry of nature, without thinking ourselves beholden to any thing but our own knowledge. She that churns the cream, makes the butter; without inquiring into the power by which the thin lymphatic particles are forced to separate themselves, and slide away from the more unctuous. In brewing, baking, cooking, and almost every thing we have a hand in, nature is the drudge that makes all the alterations, and does the principal work; yet all, forsooth, is our own. From all which, it is manifest, that man, who is naturally for making every thing centre in himself, must, in his wild state, have a great tendency, and be very prone to look upon every thing he enjoys as his due; and every thing he meddles with, as his own performance. It requires knowledge and reflection; and a man must be pretty far advanced in the art of thinking justly, and reasoning consequentially, before he can, from his own light, and without being taught, be sensible of his obligations to God. The less a man knows, and the more shallow his understanding is, the less he is capable either of enlarging his prospect of things, or drawing consequences from the little which he does know. Raw, ignorant, and untaught men, fix their eyes on what is immediately before, and seldom look further than, as it is vulgarly expressed, the length of their noses. The wild man, if gratitude moved him, would much sooner pay his respects to the tree he gathers his nuts from, than he would think of an acknowledgment to him who had planted it; and there is no property so well established, but a civilized man would suspect his title to it sooner, than a wild one would question the sovereignty he has over his own breath. Another reason, why fear is an elder motive to religion than gratitude, is, that an untaught man would never suspect that the same cause, which he received good from, would ever do him hurt; and evil, without doubt, would always gain his attention first.

Hor. Men, indeed, seem to remember one ill turn, that is served them, better than ten good ones; one month’s sickness better than ten years health.

Cleo. In all the labours of self-preservation, man is intent on avoiding what is hurtful to him; but in the enjoyment of what is pleasant, his thoughts are relaxed, and he is void of care: he can swallow a thousand delights, one after another, without asking questions; but the least evil makes him inquisitive whence it came, in order to shun it. It is very material, therefore, to know the cause of evil; but to know that of good, which is always welcome, is of little use; that is, such a knowledge seems not to promise any addition to his happiness. When a man once apprehends such an invisible enemy, it is reasonable to think, that he would be glad to appease, and make him his friend, if he could find him out; it is highly probable, likewise, that in order to this, he would search, investigate, and look every where about him; and that finding all his inquiries upon earth in vain, he would lift up his eyes to the sky.

Hor. And so a wild man might; and look down and up again long enough before he would be the wiser. I can easily conceive, that a creature must labour under great perplexities, when it actually fears something, of which it knows neither what it is, nor where it is; and that, though a man had all the reason in the world to think it invisible, he would still be more afraid of it in the dark, than when he could see.

Cleo. Whilst a man is but an imperfect thinker, and wholly employed in furthering self preservation in the most simple manner, and removing the immediate obstacles he meets with in that pursuit, this affair, perhaps, affects him but little; but when he comes to be a tolerable reasoner, and has leisure to reflect, it must produce strange chimeras and surmises; and a wild couple would not converse together long, before they would endeavour to express their minds to one another concerning this matter; and, as in time they would invent and agree upon, certain sounds of distinction for several things, of which the ideas would often occur, so I believe, that this invisible cause would be one of the first, which they would coin a name for. A wild man and a wild woman would not take less care of their helpless brood than other animals; and it is not to imagined, but the children that were brought up by them, though without instruction or discipline, would, before they were ten years old, observe in their parents this fear of an invisible cause. It is incredible likewise, considering, how much men differ from one another in features, complexion, and temper, that all should form the same idea of this cause; from whence it would follow, that as soon as any considerable number of men could intelligibly converse together, it would appear, that there were different opinions among them concerning the invisible cause: the fear and acknowledgment of it being universal, and man always attributing his own passions to every thing, which he conceives to think, every body would be solicitous to avoid the hatred and ill-will, and, if it was possible, to gain the friendship of such a power. If we consider these things, and what we know of the nature of man, it is hardly to be conceived, that any considerable number of our species could have any intercourse together long, in peace or otherwise, but wilful lies would be raised concerning this power, and some would pretend to have seen or heard it. How different opinions about invisible power, may, by the malice and deceit of impostors, be made the occasion of mortal enmity among multitudes, is easily accounted for. If we want rain very much, and I can be persuaded, that it is your fault we have none, there needs greater cause to quarrel; and nothing has happened in the world, of priestcraft or inhumanity, folly or abomination, on religious accounts, that cannot be solved or explained, with the least trouble, from these data, and the principle of fear.

Hor. I think I must yield to you, that the first motive of religion, among savages, was fear; but you must allow me in your turn, that from the general thankfulness that nations have always paid to their gods, for signal benefits and success; the many hecatombs that have been offered after victories; and the various institutions of games and festivals; it is evident, that when men came to be wiser, and more civilized, the greatest part of their religion was built upon gratitude.

Cleo. You labour hard, I see, to vindicate the honour of our species; but we have no such cause to boast of it: and I shall demonstrate to you, that a well-weighed consideration, and a thorough understanding of our nature, will give us much less reason to exult in our pride, than it will furnish us with, for the exercise of our humility. In the first place, there is no difference between the original nature of a savage, and that of a civilized man: they are both born with fear, and neither of them, if they have their senses about them, can live many years, but an invisible Power, will, at one time or other, become the object of that fear; and this will happen to every man, whether he be wild and alone, or in society, and under the best discipline. We know by experience, that empires, states, and kingdoms, may excel in arts and sciences, politeness, and all worldly wisdom, and at the same time be slaves to the grossest idolatry, and submit to all the inconsistencies of a false religion. The most civilized people have been as foolish and absurd in sacred worship as it is possible for any savages to be; and the first have often been guilty of studied cruelties, which the latter would never have thought of. The Carthaginians were a subtle flourishing people, an opulent and formidable nation, and Hannibal had half conquered the Romans, when still to their idols they sacrificed the children of their chief nobility. And, as to private persons, there are innumerable instances in the most polite ages of men of sense and virtue, that have entertained the most miserable, unworthy, and extravagant notions of the Supreme Being. What confused and unaccountable apprehensions must not some men have had of Providence, to act as they did! Alexander Severus, who succeeded Heliogabalus, was a great reformer of abuses, and thought to be as good a prince as his predecessor was a bad one: In his palace he had an oratory, a cabinet set aside for his private devotion, where he had the images of Appollonius Tyanæus, Orpheus, Abraham, Jesus Christ, and such like gods, says his historian. What makes you smile?

Hor. To think how industrious priests are in concealing a man’s failings, when they would have you think well of him. What you say of Severus, I had read before; when looking one day for something in Moreri, I happened to cast my eye on the article of that emperor, where no mention is made either of Orpheus or Appollonius! which, remembering the passage in Lampridius, I wondered at; and thinking that I might have been mistaken, I again consulted that author, where I found it, as you have related it. I do not question but Moreri left this out on purpose to repay the civilities of the emperor to the Christians, whom, he tells us, Severus had been very favourable to.

Cleo. That is not impossible in a Roman Catholic. But what I would speak to, in the second place, is the festivals you mentioned, the hecatombs after victories, and the general thankfulness of nations to their gods. I desire you would consider, that in sacred matters, as well as all human affairs, there are rites and ceremonies, and many demonstrations of respect to be seen, that to outward appearance seem to proceed from gratitude, which, upon due examination, will be found to have been originally the result of fear. At what time the floral games were first instituted, is not well known: but they never were celebrated every year constantly, before a very unseasonable spring put the senate upon the decree that made them annual. To make up the true compound of reverence or veneration, love and esteem are as necessary ingredients as fear; but the latter alone is capable of making men counterfeit both the former; as is evident from the duties that are outwardly paid to tyrants, at the same time that inwardly they are execrated and hated. Idolators have always behaved themselves to every invisible cause they adored, as men do to a lawless arbitrary power; when they reckon it as captious, haughty, and unreasonable, as they allow it to be sovereign, unlimited, and irresistible. What motive could the frequent repetitions of the same solemnities spring from, whenever it was suspected that the least holy trifle had been omitted? You know, how often the same farce was once acted over again, because after every performance there was still room to apprehend that something had been neglected. Do but consult, I beg of you, and call to mind your own reading; cast your eyes on the infinite variety of ideas men have formed to themselves, and the vast multitude of divisions they have made of the invisible cause, which every one imagines to influence human affairs: run over the history of all ages; look into every considerable nation, their straits and calamities, as well as victories and successes; the lives of great generals, and other famous men, their adverse fortune and prosperity: mind at which times their devotion was most fervent; when oracles were most consulted, and on what accounts the gods were most frequently addressed. Do but calmly consider every thing you can remember relating to superstition, whether grave, ridiculous, or execrable, and you will find, in the first place, that the heathens, and all that have been ignorant of the true Deity, though many of them were persons otherwise of great knowledge, fine understanding, and tried probity, have represented their gods, not as wise, benign, equitable, and merciful; but, on the contrary, as passionate, revengeful, capricious, and unrelenting beings; not to mention the abominable vices and gross immoralities, the vulgar were taught to ascribe to them: In the second, that for every one instance that men have addressed themselves to an invisible cause, from a principle of gratitude, there are a thousand in every false religion to convince you, that divine worship, and men’s submission to Heaven, have always proceeded from their fear. The word religion itself, and the fear of God, are synonymous; and had man’s acknowledgment been originally founded in love, as it is in fear, the craft of impostors could have made no advantage of the passion; and all their boasted acquaintance with gods and goddesses, would have been useless to them, if men had worshipped the immortal powers, as they called their idols, out of gratitude.

Hor. All lawgivers and leaders of people gained their point, and acquired what they expected from those pretences, which is reverence; and which to produce, you have owned yourself, love and esteem to be as requisite as fear.

Cleo. But from the laws they imposed on men, and the punishments they annexed to the breach and neglect of them, it is easily seen which of the ingredients they most relied upon.

Hor. It would be difficult to name a king, or other great man, in very ancient times, who attempted to govern an infant nation that laid no claim to some commerce or other with an invisible power, either held by himself or his ancestors. Between them and Moses, there is no other difference, than that he alone was a true prophet, and really inspired, and all the rest were impostors.

Cleo. What would you infer from this?

Hor. That we can say no more for ourselves, than what men of all parties and persuasions have done in all ages, every one for their cause, viz. That they alone were in the right, and all that differed from them in the wrong.

Cleo. Is it not sufficient that we can say this of ourselves with truth and justice, after the strictest examination; when no other cause can stand any test, or bear the least inquiry? A man may relate miracles that never were wrought, and give an account of things that never happened; but a thousand years hence, all knowing men will agree, that nobody could have wrote Sir Isaac Newton’s Principia, unless he had been a great mathematician. When Moses acquainted the Israelites with what had been revealed to him, he told them a truth, which nobody then upon earth knew but himself.

Hor. You mean the unity of God, and his being the Author of the universe.

Cleo. I do so.

Hor. But is not every man of sense capable of knowing this from his reason?

Cleo. Yes, when the art of reasoning consequentially is come to that perfection, which it has been arrived at these several hundred years, and himself has been led into the method of thinking justly. Every common sailor could steer a course through the midst of the ocean, as soon as the use of the loadstone, and the mariners compass were invented. But before that, the most expert navigator would have trembled at the thoughts of such an enterprise. When Moses acquainted, and imbued the posterity of Jacob with this sublime and important truth, they were degenerated into slaves, attached to the superstition of the country they dwelled in; and the Egyptians, their masters, though they were great proficients in many arts and sciences, and more deeply skilled in the mysteries of nature than any other nation then was, had the most abject and abominable notions of the Deity, which it is possible to conceive; and no savages could have exceeded their ignorance and stupidity, as to the Supreme Being, the invisible cause that governs the world. He taught the Israelites à priori; and their children, before they were nine or ten years old, knew what the greatest philosophers did not attain to, by the light of nature, till many ages after.

Hor. The advocates for the ancients will never allow, that any modern philosophers have either thought or reasoned better, than men did in former ages.

Cleo. Let them believe their eyes: What you say every man of sense may know, by his own reason, was in the beginning of Christianity contested, and denied with zeal and vehemence by the greatest men in Rome. Celsus, Symmachus, Porphyry, Hierocles, and other famous rhetoricians, and men of unquestionable good sense, wrote in defence of idolatry, and strenuously maintained the plurality and multiplicity of their gods. Moses lived about fifteen hundred years before the reign of Augustus. If in a place where I was very well assured that nobody understood any thing of colouring or drawing, a man should tell me, that he had acquired the art of painting by inspiration, I should be more ready to laugh at him than to believe him; but if I saw him draw several fine portraits before my face, my unbelief would cease, and I should think it ridiculous any longer to suspect his veracity. All the accounts that other lawgivers and founders of nations have given of the deities, which they or their predecessors conversed with, contained ideas that were unworthy of the Divine Being; and by the light of nature only, it is easily proved, that they must have been false: But the image which Moses gave the Jews of the Supreme Being, that He was One, and had made heaven and earth, will stand all tests, and is a truth that will outlast the world. Thus, I think, I have fully proved, on the one hand, that all true religion must be revealed, and could not have come into the world without miracle; and, on the other, that what all men are born with towards religion, before they receive any instruction, is fear.

Hor. You have convinced me many ways, that we are poor creatures by nature; but I cannot help struggling against those mortifying truths, when I hear them started first. I long to hear the origin of society, and I continually retard your account of it myself with new questions.

Cleo. Do you remember where we left off?

Hor. I do not think we have made any progress yet; for we have nothing towards it but a wild man, and a wild woman, with some children and grandchildren, which they are not able either to teach or govern.

Cleo. I thought that the introduction of the reverence, which the wildest son must feel, more or less, for the most savage father, if he stays with him, had been a considerable step.

Hor. I thought so too, till you destroyed the hopes I had conceived of it yourself, by showing me the incapacity of savage parents to make use of it: And since we are still as far from the origin of society as ever we were, or ever can be, in my opinion, I desire, that before you proceed to that main point, you would answer what you have put off once already, which is my question concerning the notions of right and wrong: I cannot be easy before I have your sentiments on this head.

Cleo. Your demand is very reasonable, and I will satisfy you as well as I can. A man of sense, learning, and experience, that has been well educated, will always find out the difference between right and wrong in things diametrically opposite; and there are certain facts, which he will always condemn, and others which he will always approve of: To kill a member of the same society that has not offended us, or to rob him, will always be bad; and to cure the sick, and be beneficent to the public, he will always pronounce to be good actions: and for a man to do as he will be done by, he will always say is a good rule in life; and not only men of great accomplishments, and such as have learned to think abstractly, but all men of middling capacities, that have been brought up in society, will agree in this, in all countries and in all ages. Nothing likewise seems more true to all, that have made any tolerable use of their faculty of thinking, than that out of the society, before any division was made, either by contract or otherwise, all men would have an equal right to the earth: But do you believe that our wild man, if he had never seen any other human creature but his savage consort and his progeny, would ever have entertained the same notions of right and wrong?

Hor. Hardly; his small capacity in the art of reasoning, would hinder him from doing it so justly; and the power he found he had over his children, would render him very arbitrary.

Cleo. But without that incapacity, suppose that at threescore he was, by a miracle, to receive a fine judgment, and the faculty of thinking and reasoning consequentially, in as great a perfection as the wisest man ever did, do you think he would ever alter his notion of the right he had to every thing he could manage, or have other sentiments in relation to himself and his progeny, than from his behaviour it appeared he entertained, when he seemed to act almost altogether by instinct?

Hor. Without doubt: For, if judgment and reason were given him, what could hinder him from making use of those faculties, as well as others do?

Cleo. You seem not to consider, that no man can reason but à posteriori, from something that he knows, or supposes to be true: What I said of the difference between right and wrong, I spoke of persons who remembered their education, and lived in society; or, at least, such as plainly saw others of their own species, that were independent of them, and either their equals or superiors.

Hor. I begin to believe you are in the right: But at second thoughts, why might not a man, with great justice, think himself the sovereign of a place, where he knew no human creature but his own wife, and the descendents of both?

Cleo. With all my heart: But may there not be an hundred such savages in the world with large families, that might never meet, nor ever hear of one another?

Hor. A thousand, if you will, and then there would be so many natural sovereigns.

Cleo. Very well: what I would have you observe, is, that there are things which are commonly esteemed to be eternal truths, that an hundred or a thousand people of fine sense and judgment, could have no notion of. What if it should be true, that every man is born with this domineering spirit, and that we cannot be cured of it, but by our commerce with others, and the experience of facts, by which we are convinced that we have no such right? Let us examine a man’s whole life, from his infancy to his grave, and see which of the two seems to be most natural to him; a desire of superiority, and grasping every thing to himself, or a tendency to act according to the reasonable notions of right and wrong; and we shall find, that, in his early youth, the first is very conspicuous; that nothing appears of the second before he has received some instructions, and that this latter will always have less influence upon his actions, the more uncivilized he remains: From whence I infer, that the notions of right and wrong are acquired; for if they were as natural, or if they affected us as early as the opinion, or rather the instinct we are born with, of taking every thing to be our own, no child would ever cry for his eldest brother’s play-things.

Hor. I think there is no right more natural, nor more reasonable, than that which men have over their children; and what we owe our parents can never be repaid.

Cleo. The obligations we have to good parents for their care and education, is certainly very great.

Hor. That is the least. We are indebted to them for our being; we might be educated by an hundred others, but without them we could never have existed.

Cleo. So we could have no malt liquor, without the ground that bears the barley: I know no obligations for benefits that never were intended. Should a man see a fine parcel of cherries, be tempted to eat, and devour them accordingly with great satisfaction, it is possible he might swallow some of the stones, which we know by experience do not digest: If twelve or fourteen months after, he should find a little sprig of a cherry-tree growing in a field, where nobody would expect it, if he recollected the time, he had been there before, it is not improbable that he might guess at the true reason how it came there. It is possible, likewise, that for curiosity’s sake, this man might take up this plant, and take care of it; I am well assured, that whatever became of it afterwards, the right he would have to it from the merit of his action, would be the same which a savage would have to his child.

Hor. I think there would be a vast difference between the one and the other: the cherry-stone was never part of himself, nor mixed with his blood.

Cleo. Pardon me; all the difference, as vast as you take it to be, can only consist in this, That the cherry-stone was not part of the man who swallowed it, so long, nor received so great an alteration in its figure, whilst it was, as some other things which the savage swallowed, were, and received in their figure, whilst they stayed with him.

Hor. But he that swallowed the cherry-stone, did nothing to it; it produced a plant as a vegetable, which it might have done as well without his swallowing it.

Cleo. That is true; and I own, that as to the cause to which the plant owes its existence, you are in the right: but I plainly spoke as to the merit of the action; which in either case could only proceed from their intentions as free agents; and the savage might, and would in all probability act with as little design, to get a child, as the other had eat cherries in order to plant a tree. It is commonly said, that our children are our own flesh and blood: but this way of speaking is strangely figurative. However, allow it to be just, though rhetoricians have no name for it, what does it prove, what benevolence in us, what kindness to others in the intention?

Hor. You shall say what you please, but I think, that nothing can endear children to their parents more, than the reflection that they are their own flesh and blood.

Cleo. I am of your opinion; and it is a plain demonstration of the superlative value we have for our own selves, and every thing that comes from us, if it be good, and counted laudable; whereas, other things that are offensive, though equally our own, are in compliment to ourselves, industriously concealed; and, as soon as it is agreed upon that any thing is unseemly, and rather a disgrace to us than otherwise, presently it becomes ill manners to name, or so much as to hint at it. The contents of the stomach are variously disposed of, but we have no hand in that; and whether they go to the blood, or elsewhere, the last thing we did to them voluntarily, and with our knowledge, was swallowing them; and whatever is afterwards performed by the animal economy, a man contributes no more to, than he does to the going of his watch. This is another instance of the unjust claim we lay to every performance we are but in the least concerned in, if good comes of it, though nature does all the work; but whoever places a merit in his prolific faculty, ought likewise to expect the blame, when he has the stone, or a fever. Without this violent principle of innate folly, no rational creature would value himself on his free agency, and at the same time accept of applause for actions that are visibly independent of his will. Life in all creatures is a compound action, but the share they have in it themselves, is only passive. We are forced to breathe before we know it; and our continuance palpably depends upon the guardianship and perpetual tutelage of nature; whilst every part of her works, ourselves not excepted, is an impenetrable secret to us, that eludes all inquiries. Nature furnishes us with all the substance of our food herself, nor does she trust to our wisdom for an appetite to crave it; to chew it, she teaches us by instinct, and bribes us to it by pleasure. This seeming to be an action of choice, and ourselves being conscious of the performance, we perhaps may be said to have a part in it; but the moment after, nature resumes her care, and again withdrawn from our knowledge, preserves us in a mysterious manner, without any help or concurrence of ours, that we are sensible of. Since, then, the management of what we have eat and drank remains entirely under the direction of nature, what honour or shame ought we to receive from any part of the product, whether it is to serve as a doubtful means toward generation, or yields to vegetation a less fallible assistance? It is nature that prompts us to propagate as well as to eat; and a savage man multiplies his kind by instinct as other animals do, without more thought or design of preserving his species, than a new-born infant has of keeping itself alive, in the action of sucking.

Hor. Yet nature gave the different instincts to both, for those reasons.

Cleo. Without doubt; but what I mean, is, that the reason of the thing is as much the motive of action in the one, as it is in the other; and I verily believe, that a wild woman who had never seen, or not minded the production of any young animals, would have several children before she would guess at the real cause of them; any more than if she had the cholic, she would suspect that it proceeded from some delicious fruit she had eaten; especially if she had feasted upon it for several months, without perceiving any inconveniency from it. Children, all the world over, are brought forth with pain, more or less, which seems to have no affinity with pleasure; and an untaught creature, however docile and attentive, would want several clear experiments, before it would believe that the one could produce or be the cause of the other.

Hor. Most people marry in hopes, and with a design of having children.

Cleo. I doubt, not; and believe that there are as many that would rather not have children, or at least not so fast as often they come, as there are that wish for them, even in the state of matrimony; but out of it, in the amours of thousands, that revel in enjoyments, children are reckoned to be the greatest calamity that can befal them; and often what criminal love gave birth to, without thought more criminal pride destroys, with purposed and considerate cruelty. But all this belongs to people in society, that are knowing, and well acquainted with the natural consequences of things; what I urged, I spoke of a savage.

Hor. Still the end of love, between the different sexes, in all animals, is the preservation of their species.

Cleo. I have allowed that already. But once more the savage is not prompted to love from that consideration: he propagates before he knows the consequence of it; and I much question, whether the most civilized pair, in the most chaste of their embraces, ever acted from the care of their species, as a real principle. A rich man may, with great impatience, wish for a son to inherit his name and his estate; perhaps he may marry from no other motive, and for no other purpose; but all the satisfaction he seems to receive, from the flattering prospect of an happy posterity, can only arise from a pleasing reflection on himself, as the cause of those descendants. How much soever this man’s posterity might be thought to owe him for their being, it is certain, that the motive he acted from, was to oblige himself: still here is a wishing for posterity, a thought and design of getting children, which no wild couple could have to boast of; yet they would be vain enough to look upon themselves, as the principal cause of all their offspring and descendants, though they should live to see the fifth or sixth generation.

Hor. I can find no vanity in that, and I should think them so myself.

Cleo. Yet, as free agents, it would be plain, that they had contributed nothing to the existence of their prosperity.

Hor. Now surely, you have overshot the mark; nothing?

Cleo. No, nothing, even to that of their own children, knowingly; if you will allow that men have their appetites from nature. There is but one real cause in the universe, to produce that infinite variety of stupendous effects, and all the mighty labours that are performed in nature, either within, or far beyond the reach of our senses. Parents are the efficients of their offspring, with no more truth or propriety of speech, than the tools of an artificer, that were made and contrived by himself, are the cause of the most elaborate of his works. The senseless engine that raises water into the copper, and the passive mash-tub, have between them, as great a share in the art and action of brewing, as the liveliest male and female ever had in the production of an animal.

Hor. You make stocks and stones of us; is it not in our choice to act, or not to act?

Cleo. Yes, it is my choice now, either to run my head against the wall; or to let it alone; but, I hope, it does not puzzle you much to guess which of the two I shall choose.

Hor. But do not we move our bodies as we list; and is not every action determined by the will?

Cleo. What signifies that, where there is a passion that manifestly sways, and with a strict hand governs that will?

Hor. Still we act with consciousness, and are intelligent creatures.

Cleo. Not in the affair I speak of; where, willing or not willing, we are violently urged from within, and in a manner compelled not only to assist in, but likewise to long for, and, in spite of our teeth, be highly pleased with a performance that infinitely surpasses our understanding. The comparison I made is just, in every part of it; for the most loving, and, if you will, the most sagacious couple you can conceive, are as ignorant in the mystery of generation, nay, must remain, after having had twenty children together, as much uninformed, and as little conscious of nature’s transactions, and what has been wrought within them, as inanimate utensils are of the most mystic and most ingenious operations they have been employed in.

Hor. I do not know any man more expert in tracing human pride, or more severe in humbling it than yourself; but when the subject comes in your way, you do not know how to leave it. I wish you would, at once, go over to the origin of society; which, how to derive, or bring about at all, from the savage family, as we left it, is past my skill. It is impossible but those children, when they grew up, would quarrel on innumerable occasions: if men had but three appetites to gratify, that are the most obvious, they could never live together in peace, without government: for though they all paid a deference to the father, yet if he was a man void of all prudence, that could give them no good rules to walk by, I am persuaded that they would live in a perpetual state of war; and the more numerous his offspring grew, the more the old savage would be puzzled between his desire and incapacity of government. As they increased in numbers, they would be forced to extend their limits, and the spot they were born upon would not hold them long: nobody would be willing to leave his native vale, especially if it was a fruitful one. The more I think upon it, and the more I look into such multitudes, the less I can conceive which way they could ever be formed into a society.

Cleo. The first thing that could make man associate, would be common danger, which unites the greatest enemies: this danger they would certainly be in, from wild beasts, considering that no uninhabited country is without them, and the defenceless condition in which men come into the world. This often must have been a cruel article, to prevent the increase of our species.

Hor. The supposition then, that this wild man, with his progeny, should for fifty years live undisturbed, is not very probable; and I need not trouble myself about our savages being embarrassed with too numerous an offspring.

Cleo. You say right; there is no probability, that a man and his progeny, all unarmed, should so long escape the ravenous hunger of beasts of prey, that are to live upon what animals they can get; that leave no place unsearched, nor pains untried, to come at food, though with the hazard of their lives. The reason why I made that supposition, was to show you, first, the improbability that a wild and altogether untaught man should have the knowledge and discretion which Sir William Temple gives him; secondly, that children who conversed with their own species, though they were brought up by savages, would be governable; and consequently, that all such, when come to maturity, would be fit for society, how ignorant and unskilful soever their parents might have been.

Hor. I thank you for it; for it has shown me, that the very first generation of the most brutish savages, was sufficient to produce sociable creatures; but that to produce a man fit to govern others, much more was required.

Cleo. I return to my conjecture concerning the first motive that would make savages associate: it is not possible to know any thing with certainty of beginnings, where men were destitute of letters; but I think, that the nature of the thing makes it highly probable, that it must have been their common danger from beasts of prey; as well such sly ones as lay in wait for their children, and the defenceless animals, men made use of for themselves, as the more bold, that would openly attack grown men and women. What much confirms me in this opinion is, the general agreement of all the relations we have, from the most ancient times, in different countries: for, in the infancy of all nations, profane history is stuffed with the accounts of the conflicts men had with wild beasts. It took up the chief labours of the heroes of remotest antiquity, and their greatest prowess was shown in killing of dragons, and subduing of other monsters.

Hor. Do you lay any stress upon sphinxes, basilisks, flying dragons, and bulls that spit fire?

Cleo. As much as I do on modern witches. But I believe that all those fictions had their rise from noxious beasts, the mischiefs they did, and other realities that struck terror into man; and I believe, that if no man had ever been seen on a horse’s back, we should never have heard of Centaurs. The prodigious force and rage that are apparent in some savage animals, and the astonishing power, which, from the various poisons of venomous creatures, we are sure must be hid in others; the sudden and unexpected assaults of serpents, the variety of them; the vast bulk of crocodiles; the irregular and uncommon shapes of some fishes, and the wings of others, are all things that are capable of alarming man’s fear; and it is incredible what chimeras that passion alone may produce in a terrified mind: the dangers of the day often haunt men at night with addition of terror; and from what they remember in their dreams, it is easy to forge realities. If you will consider, likewise, that the natural ignorance of man, and his hankering after knowledge, will augment the credulity which hope and fear first give birth to; the desire the generality have of applause, and the great esteem that is commonly had for the merveilleux, and the witnesses and relaters of it: If, I say, you will consider all these, you will easily discover, how many creatures came to be talked of, described, and formally painted, that never had any existence.

Hor. I do not wonder at the origin of monstrous figures, or the invention of any fables whatever; but in the reason you gave for the first motive, that would make men combine in one interest, I find something very perplexing, which I own I never thought of before. When I reflect on the condition of man, as you have set it before me, naked and defenceless, and the multitude of ravenous animals that thirst after his blood, and are superior to him in strength, and completely armed by nature, it is inconceivable to me, how our species should have subsisted.

Cleo. What you observe is well worthy our attention.

Hor. It is astonishing. What filthy, abominable beasts are lions and tigers!

Cleo. I think them to be very fine creatures; there is nothing I admire more than a lion.

Hor. We have strange accounts of his generosity and gratitude; but do you believe them?

Cleo. I do not trouble my head about them: What I admire is his fabric, his structure, and his rage, so justly proportioned to one another. There are order, symmetry, and superlative wisdom to be observed in all the works of nature; but she has not a machine, of which every part more visibly answers the end for which the whole was formed.

Hor. The destruction of other animals.

Cleo. That is true; but how conspicuous is that end, without mystery or uncertainty! that grapes were made for wine, and man for society, are truths not accomplished in every individual: but there is a real majesty stamped on every single lion, at the sight of which the stoutest animals submit and tremble. When we look upon and examine his massy talons, the size of them, and the laboured firmness with which they are fixed in, and fastened to that prodigious paw; his dreadful teeth, the strength of his jaws, and the width of his mouth equally terrible, the use of them is obvious; but when we consider, moreover, the make of his limbs, the toughness of his flesh and tendons, the solidity of his bones, beyond that of other animals, and the whole frame of him, together with his never-ceasing anger, speed, and agility; whilst in the desart he ranges king of beasts! When, I say, we consider all these things, it is stupidity not to see the design of nature, and with what amazing skill the beautiful creature is contrived for offensive war and conquest.

Hor. You are a good painter. But after all, why would you judge of a creature’s nature from what it was perverted to, rather than from its original, the state it was first produced in? The lion in Paradise was a gentle, loving creature. Hear what Milton says of his behaviour before Adam and Eve, “as they sate recline on the soft downy bank, damask’d with flowers:”

————About them frisking play’d

All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase

In wood or wilderness, forest or den;

Sporting the lion ramp’d, and in his paw

Dandel’d the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,

Gambol’d before them.————

What was it the lion fed upon; what sustenance had all these beasts of prey in Paradise?

Cleo. I do not know. Nobody who believes the Bible, doubts, but that the whole state of Paradise, and the intercourse between God and the first man, were as much preternatural, as the creation out of nothing; and, therefore, it cannot be supposed, that they should be accounted for by human reason; and if they were, Moses would not be answerable for more than he advanced himself. The history which he has given us of those times is extremely succinct, and ought not to be charged with any thing contained in the glosses and paraphrases that have been made upon it by others.

Hor. Milton has said nothing of Paradise, but what he could justify from Moses.

Cleo. It is no where to be proved, from Moses, that the state of innocence lasted so long, that goats, or any viviparous animals could, have bred and brought forth young ones.

Hor. You mean that there could have been no kid. I should never have made that cavil in so fine a poem. It was not in my thoughts: what I aimed at in repeating those lines, was to show you how superfluous and impertinent a lion must have been in Paradise; and that those who pretend to find fault with the works of nature, might have censured her with justice, for lavishing and throwing away so many excellencies upon a great beast, to no purpose. What a fine variety of destructive weapons, would they say, what prodigious strength of limbs and sinews are here given to a creature! What to do with? to be quiet and dandle a kid. I own, that to me, this province, the employment assigned to the lion, seems to be as proper and well chosen, as if you would make a nurse of Alexander the Great.

Cleo. You might make as many flights upon a lion now, if you saw him asleep. Nobody would think that a bull had occasion for horns, who had never seen him otherwise than quietly grazing among a parcel of cows; but, if one should see him attacked by dogs, by a wolf, or a rival of his own species, he would soon find out that his horns were of great use and service to him. The lion was not made to be always in Paradise.

Hor. There I would have you. If the lion was contrived for purposes to be served and executed out of Paradise, then it is manifest, from the very creation, that the fall of man was determined and predestinated.

Cleo. Foreknown it was: nothing could be hid from Omniscience; that is certain: But that it was predestinated so as to have prejudiced, or anywise influenced the free will of Adam, I utterly deny. But that word, predestinated, has made so much noise in the world, and the thing itself has been the cause of so many fatal quarrels, and is so inexplicable, that I am resolved never to engage in any dispute concerning it.

Hor. I cannot make you; but what you have extolled so much, must have cost the lives of thousands of our species; and it is a wonder to me how men, when they were but few, could possibly defend themselves, before they had fire arms, or at least bows and arrows; for what number of naked men and women, would be a match for one couple of lions?

Cleo. Yet, here we are; and none of those animals are suffered to be wild, in any civilized nation; our superior understanding has got the start of them.

Hor. My reason tells me it must be that; but I cannot help observing, that when human understanding serves your purpose to solve any thing, it is always ready and full grown; but at other times, knowledge and reasoning are the work of time, and men are not capable of thinking justly, until after many generations. Pray, before men had arms, what could their understanding do against lions, and what hindered wild beasts from devouring mankind, as soon as they were born?

Cleo. Providence.

Hor. Daniel, indeed, was saved by miracle; but what is that to the rest of mankind? great numbers, we know, have, at different times, been torn to pieces by savage beasts: what I want to know, is, the reason that any of them escaped, and the whole species was not destroyed by them; when men had yet no weapons to defend, nor strong holds to shelter themselves from the fury of those merciless creatures.

Cleo. I have named it to you already, Providence.

Hor. But which way can you prove this miraculous assistance?

Cleo. You still talk of miracles, and I speak of Providence, or the all-governing Wisdom of God.

Hor. If you can, demonstrate to me, how that Wisdom interposed between our species and that of lions, in the beginning of the world, without miracle, any more than it does at present, eris mihi magnus Apollo: for now, I am sure, a wild lion would prey upon a naked man, as soon, at least, as he would upon an ox or an horse.

Cleo. Will not you allow me, that all properties, instincts, and what we call the nature of things, animate or inanimate, are the produce, the effects of that Wisdom?

Hor. I never thought otherwise.

Cleo. Then it will not be difficult to prove this to you. Lions are never brought forth wild, but in very hot countries, as bears are the product of the cold. But the generality of our species, which loves moderate warmth, are most delighted with the middle regions. Men may, against their wills, be inured to intense cold, or by use and patience, accustom themselves to excessive heat; but a mild air, and weather between both extremes, being more agreeable to human bodies, the greatest part of mankind would naturally settle in temperate climates, and with the same conveniency, as to every thing else, never choose any other. This would very much lessen the danger men would be in from the fiercest and most irresistible wild beasts.

Hor. But would lions and tigers in hot countries keep so close within their bounds, and bears in cold ones, as never to straggle or stray beyond them?

Cleo. I do not suppose they would; and men, as well as cattle, have often been picked up by lions, far from the places where these were whelped. No wild beasts are more fatal to our species, than often we are to one another; and men pursued by their enemies have fled into climates and countries, which they would never have chose. Avarice likewise and curiosity, have, without force or necessity, often exposed men to dangers, which they might have avoided, if they had been satisfied with what nature required; and laboured for self-preservation in that simple manner, which creatures less vain and fantastical content themselves with. In all these cases, I do not question, but multitudes of our species have suffered from savage beasts, and other noxious animals; and on their account only, I verily believe, it would have been impossible for any number of men, to have settled or subsisted in either very hot or very cold countries, before the invention of bows and arrows, or better arms. But all this does nothing to overthrow my assertion: what I wanted to prove, is, that all creatures choosing by instinct that degree of heat or cold which is most natural to them, there would be room enough in the world for man to multiply his species, for many ages, without running almost any risk of being devoured either by lions or by bears; and that the most savage man would find this out, without the help of his reason. This I call the work of Providence; by which I mean the unalterable wisdom of the Supreme Being, in the harmonious disposition of the universe; the fountain of that incomprehensible chain of causes, on which all events have their undoubted dependance.

Hor. You have made this out better than I had expected; but I am afraid, that what you alleged as the first motive towards society, is come to nothing by it.

Cleo. Do not fear that; there are other savage beasts, against which men could not guard themselves unarmed, without joining, and mutual assistance: in temperate climates, most uncultivated countries abound with wolves.

Hor. I have seen them in Germany; they are of the size of a large mastiff; but I thought their chief prey had been sheep.

Cleo. Any thing they can conquer is their prey: they are desperate creatures, and will fall upon men, cows, and horses, as well as upon sheep, when they are very hungry: they have teeth like mastiffs; but besides them they have sharp claws to tear with, which dogs have not. The stoutest man is hardly equal to them in strength; but what is worse, they often come in troops, and whole villages have been attacked by them; they have five, six, and more whelps at a litter, and would soon over-run a country where they breed, if men did not combine against, and make it their business to destroy them. Wild boars likewise, are terrible creatures, that few large forests, and uninhabited places, in temperate climates, are free from.

Hor. Those tusks of theirs are dreadful weapons.

Cleo. And they are much superior to wolves in bulk and strength. History is full of the mischief they have done in ancient times, and of the renown that valiant men have gained by conquering them.

Hor. That is true; but those heroes that fought monsters in former days, were well armed; at least, the generality of them; but what could a number of naked men, before they had any arms at all, have to oppose to the teeth and claws of ravenous wolves that came in troops; and what impression could the greatest blow a man can strike, make upon the thick bristly hide of a wild boar?

Cleo. As on the one hand, I have named every thing that man has to fear from wild beasts; so, on the other, we ought not to forget the things that are in his favour. In the first place, a wild man inured to hardship, would far exceed a tame one, in all feats of strength, nimbleness and activity; in the second, his anger would sooner and more usefully transport and assist him in his savage state, than it can do in society; where, from his infancy he is so many ways taught, and forced in his own defence, to cramp and stifle with his fears the noble gift of nature. In wild creatures we see, that most of them, when their own life or that of their young ones is at stake, fight with great obstinacy, and continue fighting to the last, and do what mischief they can, whilst they have breath, without regard to their being overmatched, or the disadvantages they labour under. It is observed likewise, that the more untaught and inconsiderate creatures are, the more entirely they are swayed by the passion that is uppermost: natural affection would make wild men and women too, sacrifice their lives, and die for their children; but they would die fighting; and one wolf would not find it an easy matter to carry of a child from his watchful parents, if they were both resolute, though they were naked. As to man’s being born defenceless, it is not to be conceived, that he should long know the strength of his arms, without being acquainted with the articulation of his fingers, or at least, what is owing to it, his faculty of grasping and holding fast; and the most untaught savage would make use of clubs and staves before he came to maturity. As the danger men are in from wild beasts would be of the highest consequence, so it would employ their utmost care and industry: they would dig holes, and invent other stratagems, to distress their enemies, and destroy their young ones: as soon as they found out fire, they would make use of that element to guard themselves and annoy their foes: by the help of it they would soon learn to sharpen wood, which presently would put them upon making spears and other weapons that would cut. When men are angry enough with creatures to strike them, and these are running away, or flying from them, they are apt to throw at what they cannot reach: this, as soon as they had spears, would naturally lead them to the invention of darts and javelins. Here, perhaps, they may stop a while; but the same chain of thinking would, in time, produce bows and arrows: the elasticity of sticks and boughs of trees is very obvious; and to make strings of the guts of animals, I dare say, is more ancient than the use of hemp. Experience teaches us, that men may have all these, and many more weapons, and be very expert in the use of them, before any manner of government, except that of parents over their children, is to be seen among them: it is likewise very well known, that savages furnished with no better arms, when they are strong enough in number, will venture to attack, and even hunt after the fiercest wild beasts, lions and tigers not excepted. Another thing is to be considered, that likewise favours our species, and relates to the nature of the creatures, of which intemperate climates man has reason to stand in bodily fear of.

Hor. Wolves and wild boars?

Cleo. Yes. That great numbers of our species have been devoured by the first, is uncontested; but they most naturally go in quest of sheep and poultry; and, as long as they can get carrion, or any thing to fill their bellies with, they seldom hunt after men, or other large animals; which is the reason, that in the summer our species, as to personal insults, have not much to fear from them. It is certain likewise, that savage swine will hunt after men, and many of their maws have been crammed with human flesh: but they naturally feed on acorns, chestnuts, beach-mast, and other vegetables; and they are only carnivorous upon occasion, and through necessity, when they can get nothing else; in great frosts, when the country is bare, and every thing covered with snow. It is evident, then, that human creatures are not in any great and immediate danger from either of these species of beasts, but in hard winters, which happen but seldom in temperate climates. But as they are our perpetual enemies, by spoiling and devouring every thing that may serve for the sustenance of man, it is highly necessary, that we should not only be always upon our guard against them, but likewise never cease to assist one another in routing and destroying them.

Hor. I plainly see, that mankind might subsist and survive to multiply, and get the mastery over all other creatures that should oppose them; and as this could never have been brought about, unless men had assisted one another against savage beasts, it is possible that the necessity men were in of joining and uniting together, was the first step toward society. Thus far I am willing to allow you to have proved your main point: but to ascribe all this to Providence, otherwise than that nothing is done without the Divine permission, seems inconsistent with the ideas we have of a perfectly good and merciful Being. It is possible, that all poisonous animals may have something in them that is beneficial to men; and I will not dispute with you, whether the most venomous of all the serpents which Lucan has made mention of, did not contain some antidote, or other fine medicine, still undiscovered: but when I look upon the vast variety of ravenous and blood-thirsty creatures, that are not only superior to us in strength, but likewise visibly armed by nature, as it were on purpose for our destruction; when, I say, I look upon these, I can find out no use for them, nor what they could be designed for, unless it be to punish us: but I can much less conceive, that the Divine Wisdom should have made them the means without which men could not have been civilized. How many thousands of our species must have been devoured in the conflicts with them!

Cleo. Ten troops of wolves, with fifty in each, would make a terrible havoc, in a long winter, among a million of our species with their hands tied behind them; but among half that number, one pestilence has been known to slaughter more, than so many wolves could have eaten in the same time; notwithstanding the great resistance that was made against it, by approved of medicines and able physicians. It is owing to the principle of pride we are born with, and the high value we all, for the sake of one, have for our species, that men imagine the whole universe to be principally made for their use; and this error makes them commit a thousand extravagancies, and have pitiful and most unworthy notions of God and his works. It is not greater cruelty, or more unnatural, in a wolf to eat a piece of a man, than it is in a man to eat part of a lamb or a chicken. What, or how many purposes wild beasts were made for, is not for us to determine; but that they were made, we know; and that some of them must have been very calamitous to every infant nation, and settlement of men, is almost as certain: this you was fully persuaded of; and thought, moreover, that they must have been such an obstacle to the very subsistence of our species, as was insurmountable: In answer to this difficulty, which you started, I showed you, from the different instincts and peculiar tendencies of animals, that in nature a manifest provision was made for our species: by which, notwithstanding the rage and power of the fiercest beasts, we should make a shift, naked and defenceless, to escape their fury, so as to be able to maintain ourselves and multiply our kind, till by our numbers, and arms acquired by our own industry, we could put to flight, or destroy all savage beasts without exception, whatever spot of the globe we might have a mind to cultivate and settle on. The necessary blessings we receive from the sun, are obvious to a child; and it is demonstrable, that without it, none of the living creatures that are now upon the earth, could subsist. But if it were of no other use, being eight hundred thousand times bigger than the earth at least, one thousandth part of it would do our business as well, if it was but nearer to us in proportion. From this consideration alone, I am persuaded, that the sun was made to enlighten and cherish other bodies, besides this planet of ours. Fire and water were designed for innumerable purposes; and among the uses that are made of them, some are immensely different from others. But whilst we receive the benefit of these, and are only intent on ourselves, it is highly probable, that there are thousands of things, and perhaps our own machines among them, that, in the vast system of the universe, are now serving some very wise ends, which we shall never know. According to that plan of this globe, I mean the scheme of government, in relation to the living creatures that inhabit the earth, the destruction of animals is as necessary as the generation of them.

Hor. I have learned that from the Fable of the Bees; and I believe what I have read there to be very true; that, if any one species was to be exempt from death, it would in time crush all the rest to pieces, though the first were sheep, and the latter all lions: but that the Supreme Being should have introduced society at the expence of so many lives of our species, I cannot believe, when it might have been done much better in a milder way.

Cleo. We are speaking of what probably was done, and not of what might have been done. There is no question, but the same Power that made whales, might have made us seventy feet high, and given us strength in proportion. But since the plan of this globe requires, and you think it necessary yourself, that in every species some should die almost as fast as others are born, why should you take away any of the means of dying?

Hor. Are there not diseases enough, physicians and apothecaries, as well as wars by sea and land, that may take off more than the redundancy of our species?

Cleo. They may, it is true; but in fact they are not always sufficient to do this: and in populous nations we see, that war, wild beasts, hanging, drowning, and an hundred casualties together, with sickness and all its attendants, are hardly a match for one invisible faculty of ours, which is the instinct men have to preserve their species. Every thing is easy to the Deity; but to speak after an human manner, it is evident, that in forming this earth, and every thing that is in it, no less wisdom or solicitude was required, in contriving the various ways and means, to get rid and destroy animals, than seems to have been employed in producing them; and it is as demonstrable, that our bodies were made on purpose not to last beyond such a period, as it is, that some houses are built with a design not to stand longer than such a term of years. But it is death itself to which our aversion by nature is universal; as to the manner of dying, men differ in their opinions; and I never heard of one yet that was generally liked of.

Hor. But nobody chooses a cruel one. What an unspeakable and infinitely excruciating torment must it be, to be torn to pieces, and eat alive by a savage beast!

Cleo. Not greater, I can assure you; than are daily occasioned by the gout in the stomach, and the stone in the bladder.

Hor. Which way can you give me this assurance; how can you prove it?

Cleo. From our fabric itself, the frame of human bodies, that cannot admit of any torment, infinitely excruciating. The degrees of pain, as well as of pleasure, in this life are limited, and exactly proportioned to every one’s strength; whatever exceeds that, takes away the senses; and whoever has once fainted away with the extremity of any torture, knows the fall extent of what here he can suffer, if he remembers what he felt. The real mischief which wild beasts have done to our species, and the calamities they have brought upon it, are not to be compared to the cruel usage, and the multiplicity of mortal injuries which men have received from one another. Set before your eyes a robust warrior, that having lost a limb in battle, is afterwards trampled upon by twenty horses; and tell me, pray, whether you think, that lying thus helpless with most of his ribs broke, and a fractured skull, in the agony of death, for several hours, he suffers less than if a lion had dispatched him?

Hor. They are both very bad.

Cleo. In the choice of things we are more often directed by the caprice of fashions, and the custom of the age, than we are by solid reason, or our own understanding. There is no greater comfort in dying of a dropsy, and in being eaten by worms, than there is in being drowned at sea, and becoming the prey of fishes. But in our narrow way of thinking, there is something that subverts and corrupt our judgment; how else could persons of known elegancy in their taste, prefer rotting and stinking in a loathsome sepulchre, to their being burnt in the open air to inoffensive ashes?

Hor. I freely own, that I have an aversion to every thing that is shocking and unnatural.

Cleo. What you call shocking, I do not know; but nothing is more common to nature, or more agreeable to her ordinary course, than that creatures should live upon one another. The whole system of animated beings on the earth seems to be built upon this; and there is not one species that we know of, that has not another that feeds upon it, either alive or dead; and most kind of fish are forced to live upon fish. That this in the last-mentioned, was not an omission or neglect, is evident from the large provision nature has made for it, far exceeding any thing she has done for other animals.

Hor. You mean the prodigious quantity of roe they spawn.

Cleo. Yes; and that the eggs contained in them, receive not their fecundity until after they are excluded; by which means the female may be filled with as many of them as her belly can hold, and the eggs themselves may be more closely crowded together, than would be consistent with the admission of any substance from the male: without this, one fish could not bring forth yearly such a prodigious shoal.

Hor. But might not the aura seminalis of the male be subtle enough to penetrate the whole cluster of eggs, and influence every one of them, without taking up any room, as it does in fowls and other oviparous animals?

Cleo. The ostrich excepted in the first place: in the second, there are no other oviparous animals in which the eggs are so closely compacted together, as they are in fish. But suppose the prolific power should pervade the whole mass of them; if all the eggs which some of the females are crammed with, were to be impregnated whilst they are within the fish, it is impossible but the aura seminalis, the prolific spirit of the male, though it took up no room itself, would, as it does in all other creatures, dilate, and more or less distend every egg; and the least expansion of so many individuals would swell the whole roe to a bulk that would require a much greater space, than the cavity that now contains them. Is not here a contrivance beyond imagination fine, to provide for the continuance of a species, though every individual of it should be born with an instinct to destroy it!

Hor. What you speak of, is only true at sea, in a considerable part of Europe at least: for in fresh water, most kinds of fish do not feed on their own species, and yet they spawn in the same manner, and are as full of roe as all the rest: among them, the only great destroyer with us, is the pike.

Cleo. And he is a very ravenous one: We see in ponds, that where pikes are suffered to be, no other fish shall ever increase in number. But in rivers, and all waters near any land, there are amphibious fowls, and many sorts of them, that live mostly upon fish: Of these water-fowls in many places are prodigious quantities. Besides these, there are otters, beavers, and many other creatures that live upon fish. In brooks and shallow waters, the hearn and bittern will have their share: What is taken off by them, perhaps is but little; but the young fry, and the spawn that one pair of swans are able to consume in one year, would very well serve to stock a considerable river. So they are but eat, it is no matter what eats them, either their own species or another: What I would prove, is, that nature produces no extraordinary numbers of any species, but she has contrived means answerable to destroy them. The variety of insects in the several parts of the world, would be incredible to any one that has not examined into this matter; and the different beauties to be observed in them is infinite: But neither the beauty, nor the variety, of them, are more surprising, than the industry of nature in the multiplicity of her contrivances to kill them; and if the care and vigilance of all other animals in destroying them were to cease at once, in two years time the greatest part of the earth, which is ours now, would be theirs, and in many countries insects would be the only inhabitants.

Hor. I have heard that whales live upon nothing else; that must make a fine consumption.

Cleo. That is the general opinion, I suppose, because they never find any fish in them; and because there are vast multitudes of insects in those seas, hovering on the surface of the water. This creature likewise helps to corroborate my assertion, that in the numbers produced of every species, the greatest regard is had to the consumption of them: This prodigious animal being too big to be swallowed, nature in it has quite altered the economy observed in all other fish; for they are viviparous, engender like other viviparous animals, and have never above two or three young ones at a time. For the continuance of every species among such an infinite variety of creatures as this globe yields, it was highly necessary, that the provision for their destruction should not be less ample, than that which was made for the generation of them; and therefore the solicitude of nature in procuring death, and the consumption of animals, is visibly superior to the care she takes to seed and preserve them.

Hor. Prove that pray.

Cleo. Millions of her creatures are starved every year, and doomed to perish for want of sustenance; but whenever any die, there is always plenty of mouths to devour them. But then, again, she gives all she has: nothing is so fine or elaborate, as that she grudges it for food; nor is any thing more extensive or impartial than her bounty: she thinks nothing too good for the meanest of her broods, and all creatures are equally welcome to every thing they can find to eat. How curious is the workmanship in the structure of a common fly; how inimitable are the celerity of his wings, and the quickness of all his motions in hot weather! Should a Pythagorean, that was likewise a good master in mechanics, by the help of a microscope, pry into every minute part of this changeable creature, and duly consider the elegancy of its machinery, would he not think it great pity, that thousands of millions of animated beings, so nicely wrought and admirably finished, should every day be devoured by little birds and spiders, of which we stand in so little need? Nay, do not you think yourself, that things would have been managed full as well, is the quantity of flies had been less, and there had been no spiders at all?

Hor. I remember the fable of the Acorn and the Pumkin too well to answer you; I do not trouble my head about it.

Cleo. Yet you found fault with the means, which I supposed Providence had made use of to make men associate; I mean the common danger they were in from wild beasts: though you owned the probability of its having been the first motive of their uniting.

Hor. I cannot believe that Providence should have no greater regard to our species, than it has to flies, and the spawn of fish: or that nature has ever sported with the fate of human creatures, as she does with the lives of insects, and been as wantonly lavish of the first, as she seems to be of the latter. I wonder how you can reconcile this to religion; you that are such a stickler for Christianity.

Cleo. Religion has nothing to do with it. But we are so full of our own species, and the excellency of it, that we have no leisure seriously to consider the system of this earth; I mean the plan on which the economy of it is built, in relation to the living creatures that are in and upon it.

Hor. I do not speak as to our species, but in respect to the Deity: has religion nothing to do with it, that you make God the author of so much cruelty and malice?

Cleo. It is impossible, you should speak otherwise, than in relation to our species, when you make use of those expressions, which can only signify to us the intentions things were done with, or the sentiments human creatures have of them; and nothing can be called cruel or malicious in regard to him who did it, unless his thoughts and designs were such in doing it. All actions in nature, abstractly considered, are equally indifferent; and whatever it may be to individual creatures, to die is not a greater evil to this earth, or the whole universe, than it is to be born.

Hor. This is making the First Cause of things not an intelligent being.

Cleo. Why so? Can you not conceive an intelligent, and even a most wise being, that is not only exempt from, but likewise incapable of entertaining any malice or cruelty?

Hor. Such a being could not commit, or order things that are malicious and cruel.

Cleo. Neither does God. But this will carry us into a dispute about the origin of evil; and from thence we must inevitably fall on free-will and predestination, which, as I have told you before, is an inexplicable mystery I will never meddle with. But I never said nor thought any thing irreverent to the Deity: on the contrary, the idea I have of the Supreme Being, is as transcendently great, as my capacity is able to form one, of what is incomprehensible; and I could as soon believe, that he could cease to exist, as that he should be the author of any real evil. But I should be glad to hear the method, after which you think society might have been much better introduced: Pray, acquaint me with that milder way you spoke of.

Hor. You have thoroughly convinced me, that the natural love which it is pretended we have for our species, is not greater than what many other animals have for theirs: but if nature had actually given us an affection for one another, as sincere and conspicuous as that which parents are seen to have for their children, whilst they are helpless, men would have joined together by choice; and nothing could have hindered them from associating, whether their numbers had been great or small, and themselves either ignorant or knowing.

Cleo. O mentes hominum cæcas! O Pectora cæca!

Hor. You may exclaim as much as you please; I am persuaded that this would have united men in firmer bonds of friendship, than any common danger from wild beasts could have tied them with: but what fault can you find with it, and what mischief could have befallen us from mutual affection?

Cleo. It would have been inconsistent with the scheme, the plan after which, it is evident, Providence has been pleased to order and dispose of things in the universe. If such an affection had been planted in man by instinct, there never could have been any fatal quarrels among them, nor mortal hatreds; men could never have been cruel to one another: in short, there could have been no wars of any duration; and no considerable numbers of our species could ever have been killed by one another’s malice.

Hor. You would make a rare state-physician, in prescribing war, cruelty and malice, for the welfare and maintenance of civil society.

Cleo. Pray, do not misrepresent me: I have done no such thing: but if you believe the world is governed by Providence at all, you must believe likewise, that the Deity makes use of means to bring about, perform, and execute his will and pleasure: As for example, to have war kindled, there must be first misunderstandings and quarrels between the subjects of different nations, and dissentions among the respective princes, rulers, or governors of them: it is evident, that the mind of man is the general mint where the means of this sort must be coined; from whence I conclude, that if Providence had ordered matters after that mild way, which you think would have been the best, very little of human blood could have been spilt, if any at all.

Hor. Where would have been the inconveniency of that?

Cleo. You could not have had that variety of living creatures, there is now; nay, there would not have been room for man himself, and his sustenance: our species alone would have overstocked the earth, if there had been no wars, and the common course of Providence had not been more interrupted than it has been. Might I not justly say then, that this is quite contrary and destructive to the scheme on which it is plain this earth was built? This is a consideration which you will never give its due weight. I have once already put you in mind of it, that you yourself have allowed the destruction of animals to be as necessary as the generation of them. There is as much wisdom to be seen in the contrivances how numbers of living creatures might always be taken off and destroyed, to make room for those that continually succeed them, as there is in making all the different sorts of them, every one preserve their own species. What do you think is the reason, that there is but one way for us to come into the world?

Hor. Because that one is sufficient.

Cleo. Then from a parity of reason, we ought to think, that there are several ways to go out of the world, because one would not have been sufficient. Now, if for the support and maintenance of that variety of creatures which are here that they should die, is a postulatum as necessary as it is, that they should be born; and you cut off or obstruct the means of dying, and actually stop up one of the great gates, through which we see multitudes go to death; do you not oppose the scheme, nay, do you mar it less, than if you hindered generation! Is there never had been war, and no other means of dying, besides the ordinary ones, this globe could not have born, or at least not maintained, the tenth part of the people that would have been in it. By war, I do not mean only such as one nation has had against another, but civil as well as foreign quarrels, general massacres, private murders, poison, sword, and all hostile force, by which men, notwithstanding their pretence of love to their species, have endeavoured to take away one another’s lives throughout the world, from the time that Cain slew Abel to this day.

Hor. I do not believe, that a quarter of all these mischiefs are upon record: but what may be known from history, would make a prodigious number of men: much greater, I dare say, than ever was on earth at one time: But what would you infer from this? They would not have been immortal; and if they had not died in war, they must soon after have been slain by diseases. When a man of threescore is killed by a bullet in the field, it is odds, that he would not have lived four years longer, though he had stayed at home.

Cleo. There are soldiers of threescore perhaps in all armies, but men generally go to the war when they are young; and when four or five thousand are lost in battle, you will find the greatest number to have been under five-and-thirty: consider now, that many men do not marry till after that age, who get ten or a dozen children.

Hor. If all that die by the hands of another, were to get a dozen children before they die——

Cleo. There is no occasion for that; I suppose nothing, that is either extravagant or improbable; but that all such, as have been wilfully destroyed by means of their species, should have lived, and taken their chance with the rest; that every thing should have befallen them, that has befallen those that have not been killed that way; and the same likewise to their posterity; and that all of them should have been subject to all the casualties as well as diseases, doctors, apothecaries, and other accidents, that take away man’s life, and shorten his days; war, and violence from one another, only excepted.

Hor. But if the earth had been too full of inhabitants, might not Providence have sent pestilences and diseases oftener? More children might have died when they were young, or more women might have proved barren.

Cleo. I do not know whether your mild way would have been more generally pleasing; but you entertain notions of the Deity that are unworthy of him. Men might certainly have been born with the instinct you speak of; but if this had been the Creator’s pleasure, there must have been another economy; and things on earth, from the beginning, would have been ordered in a manner quite different from what they are now. But to make a scheme first, and afterwards to mend it, when it proves defective, is the business of finite wisdom; it belongs to human prudence alone to mend faults, to correct and redress what was done amiss before, and to alter the measures which experience teaches men, were ill concerted: but the knowledge of God was consummate from eternity. Infinite Wisdom is not liable to errors or mistakes; therefore all his works are universally good, and every thing is made exactly as he would have it: the firmness and liability of his laws and councils are everlasting, and therefore his resolutions are as unalterable, as his decrees are eternal. It is not a quarter of an hour ago, that you named wars among the necessary means to carry off the redundancy of our species; how come you now to think them useless? I can demonstrate to you, that nature, in the production of our species, has amply provided against the losses of our sex, occasioned by wars, by repairing them visibly, where they are sustained, in as palpable a manner, as she has provided for the great destruction that is made of fish, by their devouring one another.

Hor. How is that, pray?

Cleo. By sending more males into the world than females. You will easily allow me that our sex bears the brunt of all the toils and hazards that are undergone by sea and land; and that by this means a far greater number of men must be destroyed than there is of women: now if we see, as certainly we do, that of the infants yearly born, the number of males is always considerably superior to that of the females, is it not manifest, that nature has made a provision for great multitudes, which, if they were not destroyed, would be not only superfluous, but of pernicious consequence in great nations?

Hor. That superiority in the number of males born is wonderful indeed; I remember the account that has been published concerning it, as it was taken from the bills of births and burials in the city and suburbs.

Cleo. For fourscore years; in which the number of females born was constantly much inferior to that of the males, sometimes by many hundreds: and that this provision of nature, to supply the havoc that is made of men by wars and navigation, is still greater than could be imagined from that difference only, will soon appear, if we consider that women, in the first place, are liable to all diseases, within a trifle, that are incident to men; and that, in the second, they are subject to many disorders and calamities on account of their sex, which great numbers die of, and which men are wholly exempt from.

Hor. This could not well be the effect of chance; but it spoils the consequence which you drew from my affectionate scheme, in case there had been no wars: for your fear that our species would have increased beyond all bounds, was entirely built upon the supposition, that those who have died in war should not have wanted women if they had lived; which, from this superiority in the number of males, it is evident, they should and must have wanted.

Cleo. What you observe is true; but my chief aim was to show you how disagreeable the alteration you required would have been every way to the rest of the scheme, by which it is manifest things are governed at present. For, if the provision had been made on the other side; and nature, in the production of our species, had continually taken care to repair the loss of women that die of calamities not incident to men, then certainly there would have been women for all the men that have been destroyed by their own species, if they had lived; and the earth without war, as I have said, would have been over-stocked; or, if nature had ever been the same as she is now, that is, if more males had been born than females, and more females had died of diseases than males, the world would constantly have had a great superfluity of men, if there never had been any wars; and this disproportion between their number and that of the women would have caused innumerable mischiefs, that are now prevented by no other natural causes, than the small value men set upon their species, and their dissentions with one another.

Hor. I can see no other mischief this would produce, than that the number of males which die without having ever tried matrimony, would be greater than it is now; and whether that would be a real evil or not, is a very disputable point.

Cleo. Do not you think, that this perpetual scarcity of women, and superfluity of men, would make great uneasiness in all societies, how well soever people might love one another; and that the value, the price of women, would be so enhanced by it, that none but men in tolerable good circumstances would be able to purchase them? This alone would make us another world; and mankind could never have known that most necessary and now inexhaustible spring, from which all nations, where slaves are not allowed of, are constantly supplied with willing hands for all the drudgery of hard and dirty labour; I mean the children of the poor, the greatest and most extensive of all temporal blessings that accrue from society, on which all the comforts of life, in the civilized state, have their unavoidable dependance. There are many other things, from which it is plain, that such a real love of man for his species would have been altogether inconsistent with the present scheme; the world must have been destitute of all that industry, that is owing to envy and emulation; no society could have been easy with being a flourishing people at the expence of their neighbours, or enduring to be counted a formidable nation. All men would have been levellers; government would have been unnecessary; and there could have been no great bustle in the world. Look into the men of greatest renown, and the most celebrated achievements of antiquity, and every thing that has been cried up and admired in past ages by the fashionable part of mankind; if the same labours were to be performed over again, which qualification, which help of nature do you think would be the most proper means to have them executed; that instinct of real affection you required, without ambition or the love of glory; or a staunch principle of pride and selfishness, acting under pretence to, and assuming the resemblance of that affection? Consider, I beseech you, that no men governed by this instinct would require services of any of their species, which they would not be ready to perform for others; and you will easily see, that its being universal would quite alter the scene of society from what it is now. Such an instinct might be very suitable to another scheme different from this, in another world; where, instead of fickleness, and a restless desire after changes and novelty, there was observed an universal steadiness, continually preferred by a serene spirit of contentment among other creatures of different appetites from ours, that had frugality without avarice, and generosity without pride; and whose solicitude after happiness in a future state, was as active and apparent in life as our pursuits are after the enjoyments of this present. But, as to the world we live in, examine into the various ways of earthly greatness, and all the engines that are made use of to attain to the felicity of carnal men, and you will find, that the instinct you speak of must have destroyed the principles, and prevented the very existence of that pomp and glory to which human societies have been, and are still raised by worldly wisdom.

Hor. I give up my affectionate scheme; you have convinced me that there could not have been that stir and variety, nor, upon the whole, that beauty in the world, which there have been, if all men had been naturally humble, good, and virtuous. I believe that wars of all sorts, as well as diseases, are natural means to hinder mankind from increasing too fast; but that wild beasts should likewise have been designed to thin our species, I cannot conceive; for they can only serve this end, when men are but few, and their numbers should be increased, instead of lessened; and afterwards, if they were made for that purpose, when men are strong enough, they would not answer it.

Cleo. I never said that wild beasts was designed to thin our species. I have showed that many things were made to serve a variety of different purposes; that in the scheme of this earth, many things must have been considered that man has nothing to do with; and that it is ridiculous to think that the universe was made for our sake. I have said likewise, that as all our knowledge comes, à posteriori, it is imprudent to reason otherwise than from facts. That there are wild beasts, and that there are savage men, is certain; and that where there are but few of the latter, the first must always be very troublesome, and often fatal to them, is as certain; and when I reflect on the passions all men are born with, and their incapacity whilst they are untaught, I can find no cause or motive which is so likely to unite them together, and make them espouse the same interest, as that common danger they must always be in from wild beasts, in uncultivated countries, whilst they live in small families that all shift for themselves, without government or dependance upon one another: This first step to society, I believe to be an effect, which that same cause, the common danger so often mentioned, will never fail to produce upon our species in such circumstances: what other, and how many purposes wild beasts might have been designed for besides, I do not pretend to determine, as I have told you before.

Hor. But whatever other purposes wild beasts were designed for, it still follows from your opinion, that the uniting of savages in common defence, must have been one; which to me seems clashing with our idea of the Divine Goodness.

Cleo. So will every thing seem to do, which we call natural evil; if you ascribe human passions to the Deity, and measure Infinite Wisdom by the standard of our most shallow capacity; you have been at this twice already; I thought I had answered it. I would not make God the author of evil, any more than yourself; but I am likewise persuaded, that nothing could come by chance, in respect to the Supreme Being; and, therefore, unless you imagine the world not to be governed by Providence, you must believe that wars, and all the calamities we can suffer from man or beast, as well as plagues and all other diseases, are under a wise direction that is unfathomable. As there can be no effect without a cause, so nothing can be said to happen by chance, but in respect to him who is ignorant of the cause of it. I can make this evident to you, in an obvious and familiar example. To a man who knows nothing of the tennis-court, the skips and rebounds of the ball seems to be all fortuitous; as he is not able to guess at the several different directions it will receive before it comes to the ground; so, as soon as it has hit the place to which it was plainly directed at first, it is chance to him where it will fall: whereas, the experienced player, knowing perfectly well the journey the ball will make, goes directly to the place, if he is not there already, where it will certainly come within his reach. Nothing seems to be more the effect of chance than a cast of the dice: yet they obey the laws of gravity and motion in general, as much as any thing else; and from the impressions that are given them, it is impossible they should fall otherwise than they do: but the various directions which they shall receive in the whole course of the throw being entirely unknown, and the rapidity with which they change their situation being such, that our slow apprehension cannot trace them, what the cast will be is a mystery to human understanding, at fair play. But if the same variety of directions was given to two cubes of ten feet each, which a pair of dice receive, as well from one another as the box, the caster’s fingers that cover it, and the table they are flung upon, from the time they are taken up until they lie still, the same effect would follow; and if the quantity of motion, the force that is imparted to the box and dice was exactly known, and the motion itself was so much retarded in the performance, that what is done in three or four seconds, should take up an hour’s time, it would be easy to find out the reason of every throw, and men might learn with certainty to foretell which side of the cube would be uppermost. It is evident, then, that the words fortuitous and casual, have no other meaning than what depends upon our want of knowledge, foresight, and penetration; the reflection on which will show us, by what an infinity of degrees all human capacity falls short of that universal intuitus, with which the Supreme Being beholds at once every thing without exception, whether to us it be visible or invisible, past, present, or to come.

Hor. I yield: you have solved every difficulty I have been able to raise; and I must confess, that your supposition concerning the first motive that would make savages associate, is neither clashing with good sense, nor any idea we ought to have of the Divine attributes; but, on the contrary, in answering my objections, you have demonstrated the probability of your conjecture, and rendered the wisdom and power of providence, in the scheme of this earth, both as to the contrivance and the execution of it, more conspicuous and palpable to me, than any thing I ever heard or read, had done before.

Cleo. I am glad you are satisfied; though far from arrogating to myself so much merit as your civility would compliment me with.

Hor. It is very clear to me now; that as it is appointed for all men to die, so it is necessary there should be means to compass this end; that from the number of those means, or causes of death; it is impossible to exclude either the malice of men, or the rage of wild beasts, and all noxious animals; and that if they had been actually designed by nature, and contrived for that purpose, we should have no more reason justly to complain of them, than we have to find fault with death itself, or that frightful train of diseases which are daily and hourly the manifest occasion of it.

Cleo. They are all equally included in the curse, which after the fall was deservedly pronounced against the whole earth; and if they be real evils, they are to be looked upon as the consequence of sin, and a condign punishment, which the transgression of our first parents has drawn and entailed upon all their posterity. I am fully persuaded, that all the nations in the world, and every individual of our species, civilized or savage, had their origin from Seth, Sham, or Japhet: and as experience has taught us, that the greatest empires have their periods, and the best governed states and kingdoms may come to ruin; so it is certain, that the politest people being scattered and distressed, may soon degenerate, and some of them by accidents and misfortunes, from knowing and well taught ancestors, be reduced at last to savages of the first and lowest class.

Hor. If what you are fully persuaded of, be true, the other is self-evident, from the savages that are still subsisting.

Cleo. You once seemed to insinuate, that all the danger men were in from wild beasts, would entirely cease as soon as they were civilized, and lived in large and well-ordered societies; but by this you may see, that our species will never be wholly exempt from that danger; because mankind will always be liable to be reduced to savages; for, as this calamity has actually befallen vast multitudes that were the undoubted descendants of Noah; so the greatest prince upon earth, that has children, cannot be sure, that the same disaster will never happen to any of his posterity. Wild beasts may be entirely extirpated in some countries that are duly cultivated; but they will multiply in others that are wholly neglected; and great numbers of them range now, and are masters in many places, where they had been rooted and kept out before. I shall always believe that every species of living creatures in and upon this globe, without exception, continues to be, as it was at first, under the care of that same Providence that thought fit to produce it. You have had a great deal of patience, but I would not tire it: This first step towards society, now we have mastered it, is a good resting place, and so we will leave off for to-day.

Hor. With all my heart: I have made you talk a great deal; but I long to hear the rest, as soon as you are at leisure.

Cleo. I am obliged to dine at Windsor to-morrow; if you are not otherwise engaged, I can carry you where the honour of your company will be highly esteemed: my coach shall be ready at nine; you know you are in my way.

Hor. A fine opportunity, indeed, of three or four hours chat.

Cleo. I shall be all alone without you.

Hor. I am your man, and shall expect you.

Cleo. Adieu.

THE SIXTH
DIALOGUE
BETWEEN
HORATIO AND CLEOMENES

Horatio.

Now we are off the stones, pray let us lose no time; I expect a great deal of pleasure from what I am to hear further.

Cleo. The second step to society is the danger men are in from one another: for which we are beholden to that staunch principle of pride and ambition, that all men are born with. Different families may endeavour to live together, and be ready to join in common danger; but they are all of little use to one another, when there is no common enemy to oppose. If we consider that strength, agility, and courage would, in such a state, be the most valuable qualifications, and that many families could not live long together, but some, actuated by the principle I named, would strive for superiority: this must breed quarrels, in which the most weak and fearful will, for their own safety, always join with him of whom they have the best opinion.

Hor. This would naturally divide multitudes into bands and companies, that would all have their different leaders, and of which the strongest and most valiant would always swallow up the weakest and most fearful.

Cleo. What you say agrees exactly with the accounts we have of the uncivilized nations that are still subsisting in the world; and thus men may live miserably many ages.

Hor. The very first generation that was brought up under the tuition of parents, would be governable: and would not every succeeding generation grow wiser than the foregoing?

Cleo. Without doubt they would increase in knowledge and cunning: time and experience would have the same effect upon them as it has upon others; and in the particular things to which they applied themselves, they would become as expert and ingenious as the most civilized nations: but their unruly passions, and the discords occasioned by them, would never suffer them to be happy; their mutual contentions would be continually spoiling their improvements, destroying their inventions, and frustrating their designs.

Hor. But would not their sufferings in time bring them acquainted with the causes of their disagreement; and would not that knowledge put them upon making of contracts, not to injure one another?

Cleo. Very probably they would; but among such ill-bred and uncultivated people, no man would keep a contract longer than that interest lasted which made him submit to it.

Hor. But might not religion, the fear of an invisible cause, be made serviceable to them, as to the keeping of their contracts?

Cleo. It might, without dispute; and would, before many generations passed away. But religion could do no more among them, than it does among civilized nations; where the Divine vengeance is seldom trusted to only, and oaths themselves are thought to be of little service, where there is no human power to enforce the obligation, and punish perjury.

Hor. But do not think, that the same ambition that made a man aspire to be a leader, would make him likewise desirous of being obeyed in civil matters, by the numbers he led?

Cleo. I do; and moreover that, notwithstanding this unsettled and precarious way communities would live in, after three or four generations, human nature would be looked into, and begin to be understood: leaders would find out, that the more strife and discord there was amongst the people they headed, the less use they could make of them: this would put them upon various ways of curbing mankind; they would forbid killing and striking one another; the taking away by force the wives or children of others in the same community; they would invent penalties, and very early find out that nobody ought to be a judge in his own cause; and that old men, generally speaking, knew more than young.

Hor. When once they have prohibitions and penalties, I should think all the difficulty surmounted; and I wonder why you said, that thus they might live miserably for many ages.

Cleo. There is one thing of great moment, which has not been named yet; and until that comes to pass, no considerable numbers can ever be made happy; what signify the strongest contracts when we have nothing to show for them; and what dependence can we have upon oral tradition, in matters that require exactness; especially whilst the language that is spoken is yet very imperfect? Verbal reports are liable to a thousand cavils and disputes that are prevented by records, which every body knows to be unerring witnesses; and from the many attempts that are made to wrest and distort the sense of even written laws, we may judge how impracticable the administration of justice must be among all societies that are destitute of them. Therefore the third and last step to society, is the invention of letters. No multitudes can live peaceably without government; no government can subsist without laws; and no laws can be effectual long, unless they are wrote down: the consideration of this is alone sufficient to give us a great insight into the nature of man.

Hor. I do not think so: the reason why no government can subsist without laws, is, because there are bad men in all multitudes; but to take patterns from them, when we would judge of human nature, rather than from the good ones that follow the dictates of their reason, is an injustice one would not be guilty of to brute beasts; and it would be very wrong in us, for a few vicious horses, to condemn the whole species as such, without taking notice of the many fine spirited creatures that are naturally tame and gentle.

Cleo. At this rate I must repeat every thing that I have said yesterday and the day before: I thought you was convinced, that it was with thought as it is with speech; and that though man was born with a capacity beyond other animals, to attain to both, yet, whilst he remained untaught, and never conversed with any of his species, these characteristics were of little use to him. All men uninstructed, whilst they are let alone, will follow the impulse of their nature, without regard to others; and therefore all of them are bad, that are not taught to be good; so all horses are ungovernable that are not well broken: for what we call vicious in them, is, when they bite or kick, endeavour to break their halter, throw their rider, and exert themselves with all their strength to shake off the yoke, and recover that liberty which nature prompts them to assert and desire. What you call natural, is evidently artificial, and belongs to education: no fine-spirited horse was ever tame or gentle, without management. Some, perhaps, are not backed until they are four years old; but then long before that time, they are handled, spoke to, and dressed; they are fed by their keepers, put under restraint, sometimes caressed, and sometimes made to smart; and nothing is omitted whilst they are young, to inspire them with awe and veneration to our species; and make them not only submit to it, but likewise take a pride in obeying the superior genius of man. But would you judge of the nature of horses in general, as to its fitness to be governed, take the foals of the best bred mares and finest stallions, and turn an hundred of them loose, fillies and colts together, in a large forest, till they are seven years old, and then see how tractable they will be.

Hor. But this is never done.

Cleo. Whose fault is that? It is not at the request of the horses, that they are kept from the mares; and that any of them are ever gentle or tame, is entirely owing to the management of man. Vice proceeds from the same origin in men, as it does in horses; the desire of uncontrouled liberty, and impatience of restraint, are not more visible in the one than they are in the other; and a man is then called vicious, when, breaking the curbs of precepts and prohibitions, he wildly follows the unbridled appetites of his untaught or ill-managed nature. The complaints against this nature of ours, are every where the same: man would have every thing he likes, without considering whether he has any right to it or not; and he would do every thing he has a mind to do, without regard to the consequence it would be of to others; at the same time that he dislikes every body, that acting from the same principle, have in all their behaviour not a special regard to him.

Hor. That is, in short, man naturally will not do as he would be done by.

Cleo. That is true; and for this, there is another reason in his nature: all men are partial in their judgments, when they compare themselves to others; no two equals think so well of each other, as both do of themselves; and where all men have an equal right to judge, there needs no greater cause of quarrel, than a present amongst them, with an inscription of detur digniori. Man in his anger behaves himself in the same manner as other animals; disturbing, in the pursuit self-preservation, those they are angry with; and all of them endeavour, according as the degree of their passion is, either to destroy, or cause pain and displeasure to their adversaries. That these obstacles to society are the faults, or rather properties of our nature, we may know by this, that all regulations and prohibitions that have been contrived for the temporal happiness of mankind, are made exactly to tally with them, and to obviate those complaints, which I said were every where made against mankind. The principal laws of all countries have the same tendency; and there is not one that does not point at some frailty, defect, or unfitness for society, that men are naturally subject to; but all of them are plainly designed as so many remedies, to cure and disappoint that natural instinct of sovereignty, which teaches man to look upon every thing as centring in himself, and prompts him to put in a claim to every thing he can lay his hands on. This tendency and design to mend our nature, for the temporal good of society, is no where more visible, than in that compendious as well as complete body of laws, that was given by God himself. The Israelites, whilst they were slaves in Egypt, were governed by the laws of their masters; and as they were many degrees removed from the lowest savages, so they were yet far from being a civilized nation. It is reasonable to think, that, before they received the law of God, they had regulations and agreements already established, which the ten commandments did not abolish; and that they must have had notions of right and wrong, and contracts among them against open violence, and the invasion of property, is demonstrable.

Hor. How is that demonstrable?

Cleo. From the decalogue itself: all wise laws are adapted to the people that are to obey them. From the ninth commandment, for example, it is evident, that a man’s own testimony was not sufficient to be believed in his own affair, and that nobody was allowed to be a judge in his own case.

Hor. It only forbids us to bear false witness against our neighbour.

Cleo. That is true; and therefore the whole tenor and design of this commandment presupposes, and must imply what I say. But the prohibitions of stealing, adultery, and coveting any thing that belonged to their neighbours, are still more plainly intimating the same; and seem to be additions and amendments, to supply the defects of some known regulations and contracts that had been agreed upon before. If, in this view, we behold the three commandments last hinted at, we shall find them to be strong evidences, not only of that instinct of sovereignty within us, which at other times I have called a domineering spirit, and a principle of selfishness; but likewise of the difficulty there is to destroy, eradicate, and pull it out of the heart of man: for, from the eighth commandment it appears, that, though we debar ourselves from taking the things of our neighbour by force, yet there is danger that this instinct will prompt us to get them unknown to him in a clandestine manner, and deceive us with the insinuations of an oportet habere. From the foregoing precept, it is likewise manifest, that though we agree not to take away, and rob a man of the woman that is his own, it is yet to be feared, that if we like her, this innate principle that bids us gratify every appetite, will advise us to make use of her as if she was our own; though our neighbour is at the charge of maintaining her and all the children she brings forth. The last more especially is very ample in confirming my assertion. It strikes directly at the root of the evil, and lays open the real source of the mischiefs that are apprehended in the seventh and the eighth commandment: for without first actually trespassing against this, no man is in danger of breaking either of the former. This tenth commandment, moreover, insinuates very plainly, in the first place, that this instinct of ours is of great power, and a frailty hardly to be cured; in the second, that there is nothing which our neighbour can be possessed of, but, neglecting the consideration of justice and property, we may have a desire after it; for which reason it absolutely forbids us to covet any thing that is his: The Divine Wisdom, well knowing the strength of this selfish principle, which obliges us continually to assume every thing to ourselves; and that, when once a man heartily covets a thing, this instinct, this principle will over-rule and persuade him to leave no stone unturned to compass his desires.

Hor. According to your way of expounding the commandments, and making them tally so exactly with the frailties of our nature, it should follow from the ninth, that all men are born with a strong appetite to forswear themselves, which I never heard before.

Cleo. Nor I neither; and I confess that the rebuke there is in this smart turn of yours is very plausible; but the censure, how specious soever it may appear, is unjust, and you shall not find the consequence you hint at, if you will be pleased to distinguish between the natural appetites themselves, and the various crimes which they make us commit, rather than not be obeyed: For, though we are born with no immediate appetite to forswear ourselves, yet we are born with more than one, that, if never checked, may in time oblige us to forswear ourselves, or do worse, if it be possible, and they cannot be gratified without it; and the commandment you mention plainly implies, that by nature we are so unreasonably attached to our interest on all emergencies, that it is possible for a man to be swayed by it, not only to the visible detriment of others, as is manifest from the seventh and the eighth, but even though it should be against his own conscience: For nobody did ever knowingly bear false witness against his neighbour, but he did it for some end or other; this end, whatever it is, I call his interest. The law which forbids murder, had already demonstrated to us, how immensely we undervalue every thing, when it comes in competition with ourselves; for, though our greatest dread be destruction, and we know no other calamity equal to the dissolution of our being, yet such unequitable judges this instinct of sovereignty is able to make of us, that rather than not have our will, which we count our happiness, we choose to inflict this calamity on others, and bring total ruin on such as we think to be obstacles to the gratification of our appetites; and this men do, not only for hindrances that are present, or apprehended as to come, but likewise for former offences, and things that are past redress.

Hor. By what you said last, you mean revenge, I suppose.

Cleo. I do so; and the instinct of sovereignty which I assert to be in human nature, is in nothing so glaringly conspicuous as it is in this passion, which no mere man was ever born without, and which even the most civilized, as well as the most learned, are seldom able to conquer: For whoever pretends to revenge himself, must claim a right to a judicature within, and an authority to punish: Which, being destructive to the mutual peace of all multitudes, are for that reason the first things that in every civil society are snatched away out of every man’s hands, as dangerous tools, and vested in the governing part, the supreme power only.

Hor. This remark on revenge has convinced me more than any thing you have said yet, that there is some such thing as a principle of sovereignty in our nature; but I cannot conceive yet, why the vices of private, I mean particular persons, should be thought to belong to the whole species.

Cleo. Because every body is liable to fall into the vices that are peculiar to his species; and it is with them, as it is with distempers among creatures of different kinds: There are many ailments that horses are subject to, which are not incident to cows. There is no vice, but whoever commits it had within him before he was guilty of it, a tendency towards it, a latent cause that disposed him to it: Therefore, all lawgivers have two main points to consider at setting out: First, what things will procure happiness to the society under their care: Secondly, what passions and properties there are in man’s nature, that may either promote or obstruct this happiness. It is prudence to watch your fish ponds against the insults of hearns and bitterns; but the same precaution would be ridiculous against turkeys and peacocks, or any other creatures, that neither love fish, nor are able to catch them.

Hor. What frailty or defect is it in our nature, that the two first commandments have a regard to, or, as you call it, tally with?

Cleo. Our natural blindness and ignorance of the true Deity: For, though we all come into the world with an instinct toward religion that manifests itself before we come to maturity, yet the fear of an invisible cause, or invisible causes, which all men are born with, is not more universal, than the uncertainty which all untaught men fluctuate in, as to the nature and properties of that cause, or those causes: There can be no greater proof of this——

Hor. I want none; the history of all ages is a sufficient witness.

Cleo. Give me leave: There can, I say, be no greater proof of this, than the second commandment, which palpably points at all the absurdities and abominations which the ill-guided fear of an invisible cause had already made, and would still continue to make men commit; and in doing this, I can hardly think, that any thing but Divine Wisdom could, in so few words, have comprehended the vast extent and sum total of human extravagancies, as it is done in that commandment: For there is nothing so high or remote in the firmament, nor so low or abject upon earth, but some men have worshipped it, or made it one way or other the object of their superstition.

Hor.——Crocodilon adorat

Pars hæc: illa pavet saturam serpentibus Ibin.

Effigias sacri nitet aurea Cercopitheci.

A holy monkey! I own it is a reproach to our species, that ever any part of it should have adored such a creature as a god. But that is the tip-top of folly, that can be charged on superstition.

Cleo. I do not think so; a monkey is still a living creature, and consequently somewhat superior to things inanimate.

Hor. I should have thought mens adoration of the sun or moon infinitely less absurd than to have seen them fall down before so vile, so ridiculous an animal.

Cleo. Those who have adored the sun and moon never questioned, but they were intelligent as well as glorious beings. But when I mentioned the word inanimate, I was thinking on what the same poet you quoted said of the veneration men paid to leeks and onions, deities they raised in their own gardens.

Porrum & cepe nefas violare, & frangere morsu:

O sanctas genteis, quibus hæc nascuntur in hortis

Numina!——

But this is nothing to what has been done in America fourteen hundred years after the time of Juvenal. If the portentous worship of the Mexicans had been known in his days, he would not have thought it worth his while to take notice of the Egyptians. I have often admired at the uncommon pains those poor people must have taken to express the frightful and shocking, as well as bizarre and unutterable notions they entertained of the superlative malice and hellish implacable nature of their vitzliputzli, to whom they sacrificed the hearts of men, cut out whilst they were alive. The monstrous figure and laboured deformity of that abominable idol, are a lively representation of the direful ideas those wretches framed to themselves of an invisible over-ruling power; and plainly show us, how horrid and execrable they thought it to be, at the same time that they paid it the highest adoration; and at the expence of human blood endeavoured, with fear and trembling, if not to appease the wrath and rage of it, at least to avert, in some measure, the manifold mischiefs they apprehended from it.

Hor. Nothing, I must own, can render declaiming against idolatry more seasonable than a reflection upon the second commandment: But as what you have been saying required no great attention, I have been thinking of something else. Thinking on the purport of the third commandment, furnishes me with an objection, and I think a strong one, to what you have affirmed about all laws in general, and the decalogue in particular. You know I urged that it was wrong to ascribe the faults of bad men to human nature in general.

Cleo. I do; and thought I had answered you.

Hor. Let me try only once more. Which of the two, pray, do you think profane swearing to proceed from, a frailty in our nature, or an ill custom generally contracted by keeping of bad company?

Cleo. Certainly the latter.

Hor. Then it is evident to me, that this law is levelled at the bad men only, that are guilty of the vice forbid in it; and not any frailty belonging to human nature in general.

Cleo. I believe you mistake the design of this law; and am of opinion, that it has a much higher aim than you seem to imagine. You remember my saying, that reverence to authority was necessary, to make human creatures governable.

Hor. Very well; and that reverence was a compound of fear, love, and esteem.

Cleo. Now let us take a view of what is done in the decalogue: In the short preamble to it, expressly made that the Israelites should know who it was that spoke to them, God manifests himself to those whom he had chosen for his people, by a most remarkable instance of his own great power, and their strong obligation to him, in a fact, that none of them could be ignorant of. There is a plainness and grandeur withal in this sentence, than which nothing can be more truly sublime or majestic; and I defy the learned world to show me another as comprehensive, and of equal weight and dignity, that so fully executes its purpose, and answers its design with the same simplicity of words. In that part of the second commandment, which contains the motives and inducements why men should obey the Divine laws, are set forth in the most emphatical manner: First, God’s wrath on those that hate him, and the continuance of it on their posterity: Secondly, the wide extent of his mercy to those who love him and keep his commandments. If we duly consider these passages, we shall find, that fear, as well as love, and the highest esteem, are plainly and distinctly inculcated in them; and that the best method is made use of there, to inspire men with a deep sense of the three ingredients that make up the compound of reverence. The reason is plain: If people were to be governed by that body of laws, nothing was more necessary to enforce their obedience to them, than their awful regard and utmost veneration to him, at whose command they were to keep them, and to whom they were accountable for the breaking of them.

Hor. What answer is all this to my objection?

Cleo. Have a moment’s patience; I am coming to it. Mankind are naturally fickle, and delight in change and variety; they seldom retain long the same impression of things they received at first, when they were new to them; and they are apt to undervalue, if not despise the best, when they grow common. I am of opinion, that the third commandment points at this frailty, this want of steadiness in our nature; the ill consequences of which, in our duty to the Creator, could not be better prevented than by a strict observance of this law, in never making use of his name, but in the most solemn manner, on necessary occasions, and in matters of high importance. As in the foregoing part of the decalogue, care had been already taken, by the strongest motives, to create and attract reverence, so nothing could be more wisely adapted to strengthen, and make it everlasting, than the contents of this law: For as too much familiarity breeds contempt, so our highest regard due to what is most sacred, cannot be kept up better than by a quite contrary practice.

Hor. I am answered.

Cleo. What weight reverence is thought to be of to procure obedience, we may learn from the same body of laws in another commandment. Children have no opportunity of learning their duty but from their parents and those who act by their authority or in their stead: Therefore, it was requisite, that men should not only stand in great dread of the law of God, but likewise have great reverence for those who first inculcated it, and communicated to them that this was the law of God.

Hor. But you said, that the reverence of children to parents was a natural consequence of what they first experienced from the latter.

Cleo. You think there was no occasion for this law, if man would do what is commanded in it of his own accord: But I desire you would consider, that though the reverence of children to parents is a natural consequence, partly of the benefits and chastisements they receive from them, and partly of the great opinion they form of the superior capacity they observe in them; experience teaches us, that this reverence may be over-ruled by stronger passions; and therefore it being of the highest moment to all government and sociableness itself, God thought fit to fortify and strengthen it in us, by a particular command of his own; and, moreover, to encourage it, by the promise of a reward for the keeping of it. It is our parents that first cure us of our natural wildness, and break in us the spirit of independency we are all born with: It is to them we owe the first rudiments of our submission; and to the honour and deference which children pay to parents, all societies are obliged for the principle of human obedience. The instinct of sovereignty in our nature, and the waywardness of infants, which is the consequence of it, discover themselves with the least glimmering of our understanding, and before children that have been most neglected, and the least taught, are always the most stubborn and obstinate; and none are more unruly, and fonder of following their own will, than those that are least capable of governing themselves.

Hor. Then this commandment you think not obligatory, when we come to years of maturity.

Cleo. Far from it: for though the benefit politically intended by this law be chiefly received by us, whilst we are under age and the tuition of parents; yet, for that very reason, ought the duty commanded in it, never to cease. We are fond of imitating our superiors from our cradle, and whilst this honour and reverence to parents continue to be paid by their children, when they are grown men and women, and act for themselves, the example is of singular use to all minors, in teaching them their duty, and not to refuse what they see others, that are older and wiser, comply with by choice: For, by this means, as their understanding increases, this duty, by degrees, becomes a fashion, which at last their pride will not suffer them to neglect.

Hor. What you said last is certainly the reason, that among fashionable people, even the most vicious and wicked do outward homage, and pay respect to parents, at least before the world; though they act against, and in their hearts hate them.

Cleo. Here is another instance to convince us, that good manners are not inconsistent with wickedness; and that men may be strict observers of decorums, and take pains to seem well-bred, and at the same time have no regard to the laws of God, and live in contempt of religion: and therefore to procure an outward compliance with this fifth commandment, no lecture can be of such force, nor any instruction so edifying to youth, among the modest sort of people, as the sight of a strong and vigorous, as well as polite and well dressed man, in a dispute giving way and submitting to a decrepit parent.

Hor. But do you imagine that all the divine laws, even those that seem only to relate to God himself, his power and glory, and our obedience to his will, abstract from any consideration of our neighbour, had likewise a regard to the good of society, and the temporal happiness of his people?

Cleo. There is no doubt of that; witness the keeping of the Sabbath.

Hor. We have seen that very handsomely proved in one of the Spectators.

Cleo. But the usefulness of it in human affairs, is of far greater moment, than that which the author of that paper chiefly takes notice of. Of all the difficulties that mankind have laboured under in completing society, nothing has been more puzzling or perplexing than the division of time. Our annual course round the sun, not answering exactly any number of complete days or hours, has been the occasion of immense study and labour: and nothing has more racked the brain of man, than the adjusting the year to prevent the confusion of seasons: but even when the year was divided into lunar months, the computation of time must have been impracticable among the common people: To remember twenty-nine, or thirty days, where feasts are irregular, and all other days show alike, must have been a great burden to the memory, and caused a continual confusion among the ignorant; whereas, a short period soon returning is easily remembered, and one fixed day in seven, so remarkably distinguished from the rest, must rub up the memory of the most unthinking.

Hor. I believe that the Sabbath is a considerable help in the computation of time, and of greater use in human affairs, than can be easily imagined by those, who never knew the want of it.

Cleo. But what is most remarkable in this fourth commandment, is God’s revealing himself to his people, and acquainting an infant nation with a truth, which the rest of the world remained ignorant of for many ages. Men were soon made sensible of the sun’s power, observed every meteor in the sky, and suspected the influence of the moon and other stars: but it was a long time, and man was far advanced in sublime notions, before the light of nature could raise mortal thought to the contemplation of an Infinite Being that is the author of the whole.

Hor. You have descanted on this sufficiently when you spoke of Moses: pray let us proceed to the further establishment of society. I am satisfied that the third step towards it is the invention of letters; that without them no laws can be long effectual, and that the principal laws of all countries are remedies against human frailties; I mean, that they are designed as antidotes, to prevent the ill consequences of some properties, inseparable from our nature; which yet in themselves, without management or restraint, are obstructive and pernicious to society: I am persuaded likewise, that these frailties are palpably pointed at in the decalogue; that it was wrote with great wisdom, and that there is not one commandment in it, that has not a regard to the temporal good of society, as well as matters of higher moment.

Cleo. These are the things, indeed, that I have endeavoured to prove; and now all the great difficulties and chief obstructions, that can hinder a multitude from being formed into a body politic, are removed: when once men come to be governed by written laws, all the rest comes on a-pace. Now property, and safety of life and limb may be secured: this naturally will forward the love of peace, and make it spread. No number of men, when once they enjoy quiet, and no man needs to fear his neighbour, will be long without learning to divide and subdivide their labour.

Hor. I do not understand you.

Cleo. Man, as I have hinted before, naturally loves to imitate what he sees others do, which is the reason that savage people all do the same thing: this hinders them from meliorating their condition, though they are always wishing for it: but if one will wholly apply himself to the making of bows and arrows, whilst another provides food, a third builds huts, a fourth makes garments, and a fifth utensils: they not only become useful to one another, but the callings and employments themselves will in the same number of years receive much greater improvements, than if all had been promiscuously followed by every one of the five.

Hor. I believe you are perfectly right there; and the truth of what you say is in nothing so conspicuous, as it is in watch-making, which is come to a higher degree of perfection, than it would have been arrived at yet, if the whole had always remained the employment of one person; and I am persuaded, that even the plenty we have of clocks and watches, as well as the exactness and beauty they may be made of, are chiefly owing to the division that has been made of that art into many branches.

Cleo. The use of letters must likewise very much improve speech itself, which before that time cannot but be very barren and precarious.

Hor. I am glad to hear you mention speech again: I would not interrupt you when you named it once before: Pray what language did your wild couple speak, when first they met?

Cleo. From what I have said already, it is evident, that they could have had none at all; at least, that it is my opinion.

Hor. Then wild people must have an instinct to understand one another, which they lose when they are civilized.

Cleo. I am persuaded that nature has made all animals of the same kind, in their mutual commerce, intelligible to one another, as far as is requisite for the preservation of themselves and their species: and as to my wild couple, as you call them, I believe there would be a very good understanding before many sounds passed between them. It is not without some difficulty, that a man born in society can form an idea of such savages, and their condition; and unless he has used himself to abstract thinking, he can hardly represent to himself such a state of simplicity, in which man can have so few desires, and no appetites roving beyond the immediate call of untaught nature: to me it seems very plain, that such a couple would not only be destitute of language, but likewise never find out, or imagine that they stood in need of any; or that the want of it was any real inconvenience to them.

Hor. Why do you think so?

Cleo. Because it is impossible that any creatures should know the want of what it can have no idea of: I believe, moreover, that if savages, after they are grown men and women, should hear others speak, be made acquainted with the usefulness of speech, and consequently become sensible of the want of it in themselves, their inclination to learn it would be as inconsiderable as their capacity; and if they should attempt it, they would find it an immense labour, a thing not to be surmounted; because the suppleness and flexibility in the organs of speech, that children are endued with, and which I have often hinted at, would be lost in them; and they might learn to play masterly upon the violin, or any other the most difficult musical instrument, before they could make any tolerable proficiency in speaking.

Hor. Brutes make several distinct sounds to express different passions by: as for example, anguish, and great danger, dogs of all sorts express with another noise than they do rage and anger; and the whole species express grief by howling.

Cleo. This is no argument to make us believe, that nature has endued man with speech; there are innumerable other privileges and instincts which some brutes enjoy, and men are destitute of: chickens run about as soon as they are hatched; and most quadrupeds can walk without help, as soon as they are brought forth. If ever language came by instinct, the people that spoke it must have known every individual word in it; and a man in the wild state of nature would have no occasion for a thousandth part of the most barren language that ever had a name. When a man’s knowledge is confined within a narrow compass, and he has nothing to obey, but the simple dictates of nature, the want of speech is easily supplied by dumb signs; and it is more natural to untaught men to express themselves by gestures, than by sounds; but we are all born with a capacity of making ourselves understood, beyond other animals, without speech: to express grief, joy, love, wonder and fear, there are certain tokens that are common to the whole species. Who doubts that the crying of children was given them by nature, to call assistance and raise pity, which latter it does so unaccountably beyond any other sound?

Hor. In mothers and nurses, you mean.

Cleo. I mean in the generality of human creatures. Will you allow me, that warlike music generally rouses and supports the spirits, and keeps them from sinking.

Hor. I believe I must.

Cleo. Then I will engage, that the crying (I mean the vagitus) of helpless infants will stir up compassion in the generality of our species, that are within the hearing of it, with much greater certainty than drums and trumpets will dissipate and chase away fear, in those they are applied to. Weeping, laughing, smiling, frowning, sighing, exclaiming, we spoke of before. How universal, as well as copious, is the language of the eyes, by the help of which the remotest nations understand one another at first sight, taught or untaught, in the weightiest temporal concern that belongs to the species? and in that language our wild couple would at their first meeting intelligibly say more to one another without guile, than any civilized pair would dare to name without blushing.

Hor. A man, without doubt, may be as impudent with his eyes, as he can be with his tongue.

Cleo. All such looks, therefore, and several motions, that are natural, are carefully avoided among polite people, upon no other account, than that they are too significant: it is for the same reason that stretching ourselves before others, whilst we are yawning, is an absolute breach of good manners, especially in mixed company of both sexes. As it is indecent to display any of these tokens, so it is unfashionable to take notice of, or seem to understand them: this disuse and neglect of them is the cause, that whenever they happen to be made, either through ignorance or wilful rudeness, many of them are lost and really not understood, by the beau monde, that would be very plain to savages without language, who could have no other means of conversing than by signs and motions.

Hor. But if the old stock would never either be able or willing to acquire speech, it is possible they could teach it their children: then which way could any language ever come into the world from two savages?

Cleo. By slow degrees, as all other arts and sciences have done, and length of time; agriculture, physic, astronomy, architecture, painting, &c. From what we see in children that are backward with their tongues, we have reason to think, that a wild pair would make themselves intelligible to each other by signs and gestures, before they would attempt it by sounds: but when they lived together for many years, it is very probable, that for the things they were most conversant with they would find out sounds, to stir up in each other the ideas of such things, when they were out of sight; these sounds they would communicate to their young ones; and the longer they lived together the greater variety of sounds they would invent, as well for actions as the things themselves: they would find that the volubility of tongue, and flexibility of voice, were much greater in their young ones, than they could remember it ever to have been in themselves: it is impossible, but some of these young ones would either by accident or design, make use of this superior aptitude of the organs at one time or other; which every generation would still improve upon; and this must have been the origin of all languages, and speech itself, that were not taught by inspiration. I believe moreover, that after language (I mean such as is of human invention) was come to a great degree of perfection, and even when people had distinct words for every action in life, as well as every thing they meddled or conversed with, signs and gestures still continued to be made for a great while, to accompany speech; because both are intended for the same purpose.

Hor. The design of speech is to make our thoughts known to others.

Cleo. I do not think so.

Hor. What! do not men speak to be understood?

Cleo. In one sense they do; but there is a double meaning in those words, which I believe you did not intend: if by man’s speaking to be understood you mean, that when men speak, they desire that the purport of the sounds they utter should be known and apprehended by others, I answer in the affirmative: but if you mean by it, that men speak, in order that their thoughts may be known, and their sentiments laid open and seen through by others, which likewise may be meant by speaking to be understood, I answer in the negative. The first sign or sound that ever man made, born of a woman, was made in behalf, and intended for the use of him who made it; and I am of opinion, that the first design of speech was to persuade others, either to give credit to what the speaking person would have them believe; or else to act or suffer such things, as he would compel them to act or suffer, if they were entirely in his power.

Hor. Speech is likewise made use of to teach, advise, and inform others for their benefit, as well as to persuade them in our own behalf.

Cleo. And so by the help of it men may accuse themselves and own their crimes; but nobody would have invented speech for those purposes; I speak of the design, the first motive and intention that put man upon speaking. We see in children that the first things they endeavour to express with words are their wants and their will; and their speech is but a confirmation of what they asked, denied, or affirmed, by signs before.

Hor. But why do you imagine that people would continue to make use of signs and gestures, after they could sufficiently express themselves in words?

Cleo. Because signs confirm words, as much as words do signs; and we see, even in polite people, that when they are very eager they can hardly forbear making use of both. When an infant, in broken imperfect gibberish, calls for a cake or a play-thing, and at the same time points at and reaches after it, this double endeavour makes a stronger impression upon us, than if the child had spoke its wants in plain words, without making any signs, or else looked at and reached after the thing wanted, without attempting to speak. Speech and action assist and corroborate one another, and experience teaches us that they move us much more, and are more persuasive jointly than separately; vis unita fortior; and when an infant makes use of both, he acts from the same principle that an orator does when he joins proper gestures to an elaborate declamation.

Hor. From what you have said it should seem that action is not only more natural, but likewise more ancient than speech itself, which before I should have thought a paradox.

Cleo. Yet it is true; and you shall always find that the most forward, volatile, and fiery tempers make more use of gestures when they speak, than others that are more patient and sedate.

Hor. It is a very diverting scene to see how this is overdone among the French, and still more among the Portuguese: I have often been amazed to see what distortions of face and body, as well as other strange gesticulations with hands and feet, some of them will make in their ordinary discourses: But nothing was more offensive to me, when I was abroad, than the loudness and violence which most foreigners speak with, even among persons of quality, when a dispute arises, or any thing is to be debated: before I was used to it, it put me always upon my guard; for I did not question but they were angry; and I often recollected what had been said in order to consider whether it was not something I ought to have resented.

Cleo. The natural ambition and strong desire men have to triumph over, as well as persuade others, are the occasion of all this. Heightening and lowering the voice at proper seasons, is a bewitching engine to captivate mean understandings; and loudness is an assistant to speech, as well as action is: uncorrectness, false grammar, and even want of sense, are often happily drowned in noise and great bustle; and many an argument has been convincing, that had all its force from the vehemence it was made with: the weakness of the language itself may be palliatively cured by strength of elocution.

Hor. I am glad that speaking low is the fashion among well-bred people in England; for bawling and impetuosity I cannot endure.

Cleo. Yet this latter is more natural; and no man ever gave in to the contrary practice, the fashion you like, that was not taught it either by precept or example: and if men do not accustom themselves to it whilst they are young, it is very difficult to comply with it afterwards: but it is the most lovely, as well as most rational piece of good manners that human invention has to boast of in the art of flattery; for when a man addresses himself to me in a calm manner, without making gestures or other motions with head or body, and continues his discourse in the same submissive strain and composure of voice, without exalting or depressing it, he, in the first place, displays his own modesty and humility in an agreeable manner; and, in the second, makes me a great compliment in the opinion which he seems to have of me; for by such a behaviour he gives me the pleasure to imagine that he thinks me not influenced by my passions, but altogether swayed by my reason: he seems to lay his stress on my judgment, and therefore to desire, that I should weigh and consider what he says without being ruffled or disturbed: no man would do this unless he trusted entirely to my good sense, and the rectitude of my understanding.

Hor. I have always admired this unaffected manner of speaking, though I never examined so deeply into the meaning of it.

Cleo. I cannot help thinking, but that, next to the laconic and manly spirit that runs through the nation, we are very much beholden for the strength and beauty of our language to this tranquillity in discourse, which for many years has been in England, more than any where else, a custom peculiar to the beau monde, who, in all countries, are the undoubted refiners of language.

Hor. I thought that it was the preachers, play-wrights, orators, and fine writers that refined upon language.

Cleo. They make the best of what is ready coined to their hands; but the true and only mint of words and phrases is the court; and the polite part of every nation are in possession of the jus et norma loquendi. All technic words indeed, and terms of art, belong to the respective artists and dealers, that primarily and literally make use of them in their business; but whatever is borrowed from them for metaphorical use, or from other languages, living or dead, must first have the stamp of the court, and the approbation of beau monde before it can pass for current; and whatever is not used among them, or comes abroad without their sanction, is either vulgar, pedantic, or obsolete. Orators therefore, historians, and all wholesale dealers in words, are confined to those that have been already well received, and from that treasure they may pick and choose what is most for their purpose; but they are not allowed to make new ones of their own, any more than bankers are suffered to coin.

Hor. All this while I cannot comprehend what advantage or disadvantage speaking loud or low can be of to the language itself; and if what I am saying now was set down, it must be a real conjurer that, half a year hence, should be able to tell by the writing, whether it had been bawled out or whispered.

Cleo. I am of opinion that when people of skill and address accustom themselves to speak in the manner aforesaid, it must in time have an influence upon the language, and render it strong and expressive.

Hor. But your reason?

Cleo. When a man has only his words to trust to, and the hearer is not to be affected by the delivery of them, otherwise than if he was to read them himself, it will infallibly put men upon studying not only for nervous thoughts and perspicuity, but likewise for words of great energy, for purity of diction, compactness of style, and fullness, as well as elegancy of expressions.

Hor. This seems to be far fetched, and yet I do not know but there may be something in it.

Cleo. I am sure you will think so, when you consider that men that do speak are equally desirous and endeavouring to persuade and gain the point they labour for, whether they speak loud or low, with gestures or without.

Hor. Speech, you say, was invented to persuade; I am afraid you lay too much stress upon that: it certainly is made use of likewise for many other purposes.

Cleo. I do not deny that.

Hor. When people scold, call names, and pelt one another with scurrilities, what design is that done with? If it be to persuade others, to have a worse opinion of themselves than they are supposed to entertain, I believe it is seldom done with success.

Cleo. Calling names is showing others, and showing them with pleasure and ostentation, the vile and wretched opinion we have of them; and persons that make use of opprobrious language, are often endeavouring to make those whom they give it to, believe that they think worse of them than they really do.

Hor. Worse than they do! Whence does that ever appear?

Cleo. From the behaviour and the common practice of those that scold and call names. They rip up and exaggerate not only the faults and imperfections of their adversary himself, but likewise every thing that is ridiculous or contemptible in his friends or relations: They will fly to, and reflect upon every thing which he is but in the least concerned in, if any thing can possibly be said of it that is reproachful; the occupation he follows, the party he sides with, or the country he is of. They repeat with joy the calamities and misfortunes that have befallen him or his family: They see the justice of Providence in them, and they are sure they are punishments he has deserved. Whatever crime he has been suspected of, they charge him with, as if it had been proved upon him. They call in every thing to their assistance; bare surmises, loose reports, and known calumnies; and often upbraid him with what they themselves, at other times, have owned not to believe.

Hor. But how comes the practice of scolding and calling names to be so common among the vulgar all the world over? there must be a pleasure in it, though I cannot conceive it: I ask to be informed; what satisfaction or other benefit is it, that men receive or expect from it? what view is it done with?

Cleo. The real cause and inward motive men act from, when they use ill language, or call names in earnest, is, in the first place, to give vent to their anger, which it is troublesome to stifle and conceal. Secondly, to vex and afflict their enemies with greater hopes of impunity than they could reasonably entertain, if they did them any more substantial mischief, which the law would revenge: but this never comes to be a custom, nor is thought of, before language is arrived to great perfection, and society is carried to some degree of politeness.

Hor. That is merry enough, to assert that scurrility is the effect of politeness.

Cleo. You shall call it what you please, but in its original it is a plain shift to avoid fighting, and the ill consequences of it; for nobody ever called another rogue and rascal, but he would have struck him if it had been in his own power, and himself had not been withheld by the fear of something or other: therefore, where people call names without doing further injury, it is a sign not only that they have wholesome laws amongst them against open force and violence, but likewise that they obey and stand in awe of them; and a man begins to be a tolerable subject, and is nigh half civilized, that in his passion will take up and content himself with this paultry equivalent; which never was done without great self-denial at first: for otherwise the obvious, ready, and unstudied manner of venting and expressing anger, which nature teaches, is the same in human creatures that it is in other animals, and is done by fighting; as we may observe in infants of two or three months old, that never yet saw any body out of humour; for even at that age they will scratch, fling, and strike with their heads as well as arms and legs, when any thing raises their anger, which is easily, and at most times unaccountably provoked; often by hunger, pain, and other inward ailments. That they do this by instinct, something implanted in the frame, the mechanism of the body before any marks of wit or reason are to be seen in them, I am fully persuaded; as I am likewise, that nature teaches them the manner of fighting peculiar to their species; and children strike with their arms as naturally as horses kick, dogs bite, and bulls push with their horns. I beg your pardon for this digression.

Hor. It was natural enough, but if it had been less so, you would not have slipt the opportunity of having a fling at human nature, which you never spare.

Cleo. We have not a more dangerous enemy than our own inborn pride: I shall ever attack, and endeavour to mortify it when it is in my power: For the more we are persuaded that the greatest excellencies the best men have to boast of, are acquired, the greater stress it will teach us to lay upon education; and the more truly solicitous it will render us about it: And the absolute necessity of good and early instructions, can be no way more clearly demonstrated, than by exposing the deformity as well as the weakness of our untaught nature.

Hor. Let us return to speech: if the chief design of it is to persuade, the French have got the start of us a great way; theirs is really a charming language.

Cleo. So it is without doubt to a Frenchman.

Hor. And every body else, I should think, that understands it, and has any taste: do not you think it to be very engaging?

Cleo. Yes, to one that loves his belly; for it is very copious in the art of cookery, and every thing that belongs to eating and drinking.

Hor. But without banter, do not you think that the French tongue is more proper, more fit to persuade in, than ours?

Cleo. To coax and wheedle in, I believe it may.

Hor. I cannot conceive what nicety it is you aim at, in that distinction.

Cleo. The word you named includes no idea of reproach or disparagement; the greatest capacities may, without discredit to them, yield to persuasion, as well as the least; but those who can be gained by coaxing and wheedling, are commonly supposed to be persons of mean parts and weak understandings.

Hor. But pray come to the point: which of the two do you take to be the finest language?

Cleo. That is hard to determine: Nothing is more difficult than to compare the beauties of two languages together, because what is very much esteemed in the one, is often not relished at all in the other: In this point, the Pulchrum & Honestum varies, and is different every where, as the genius of the people differs. I do not set up for a judge, but what I have commonly observed in the two languages, is this: All favourite expressions in French, are such as either sooth or tickle; and nothing is more admired in English than what pierces or strikes.

Hor. Do you take yourself to be entirely impartial now?

Cleo. I think so; but if I am not, I do not know how to be sorry for it: There are some things in which it is the interest of the society that men should be biassed; and I do not think it amiss, that men should be inclined to love their own language, from the same principle that they love their country. The French call us barbarous, and we say they are fawning: I will not believe the first, let them believe what they please. Do you remember the six lines in the Cid, which Corneille is said to have had a present of six thousand livres for?

Hor. Very well.

Mon Pere est mort, Elvire, & la premiere Espee

Dont s’est arme Rodrigue a sa trame coupee.

Pleures, pleures mes yeux, & fondes vous en eau,

La moitie de ma vie a mis l’autre au tombeau;

Et m’oblige a venger, apres ce coup funeste,

Cell qui je n’ay plus sur celle qui me reste.

Cleo. The same thought expressed in our language, to all the advantage it has in the French, would be hissed by an English audience.

Hor. That is no compliment to the taste of your country.

Cleo. I do not know that: Men may have no bad taste, and yet not be so ready at conceiving, which way one half of one’s life can put the other into the grave: To me, I own it is puzzling, and it has too much the air of a riddle to be seen in heroic poetry.

Hor. Can you find no delicacy at all in the thought?

Cleo. Yes; but it is too fine spun; it is the delicacy of a cobweb; there is no strength in it.

Hor. I have always admired these lines; but now you have made me out of conceit with them: Methinks I spy another fault that is much greater.

Cleo. What is that?

Hor. The author makes his heroine say a thing which was false in fact: One half, says Chimene, of my life has put the other into the grave, and obliges me to revenge, &c. Which is the nominative of the verb obliges?

Cleo. One half of my life.

Hor. Here lies the fault; it is this, which I think is not true; for the one half of her life, here mentioned, is plainly that half which was left; it is Rodrigues her lover: Which way did he oblige her to seek for revenge?

Cleo. By what he had done, killing her father.

Hor. No, Cleomenes, this excuse is insufficient. Chimene’s calamity sprung from the dilemma she was in between her love and her duty; when the latter was inexorable, and violently pressing her to solicit the punishment, and employ with zeal all her interest and eloquence to obtain the death of him, whom the first had made dearer to her than her own life; and therefore it was the half that was gone, that was put in the grave, her dead father, and not Rodrigues which obliged her to sue for justice: Had the obligation she lay under come from this quarter, it might soon have been cancelled, and herself released without crying out her eyes.

Cleo. I beg pardon for differing from you, but I believe the poet is in the right.

Hor. Pray, consider which it was that made Chimene prosecute Rodrigues, love, or honour.

Cleo. I do; but still I cannot help thinking, but that her lover, by having killed her father, obliged Chimene to prosecute him, in the same manner as a man, who will give no satisfaction to his creditors, obliges them to arrest him; or as we would say to a coxcomb, who is offending us with his discourse, If you go on thus, Sir, you will oblige me to treat you ill: Though all this while the debtor might be as little desirous of being arrested, and the coxcomb of being ill treated, as Rodrigues was of being prosecuted.

Hor. I believe you are in the right, and I beg Corneille’s pardon. But now I desire you would tell me what you have further to say of society: What other advantages do multitudes receive from the invention of letters, besides the improvements it makes in their laws and language?

Cleo. It is an encouragement to all other inventions in general, by preserving the knowledge of every useful improvement that is made. When laws begin to be well known, and the execution of them is facilitated by general approbation, multitudes may be kept in tolerable concord among themselves: It is then that it appears, and not before, how much the superiority of man’s understanding beyond other animals, contributes to his sociableness, which is only retarded by it in his savage state.

Hor. How so, pray; I do not understand you.

Cleo. The superiority of understanding, in the first place, makes man sooner sensible of grief and joy, and capable of entertaining either with greater difference as to the degrees, than they are felt in other creatures: Secondly, it renders him more industrious to please himself; that is, it furnishes self-love with a greater variety of shifts to exert itself on all emergencies, than is made use of by animals of less capacity. Superiority of understanding likewise gives us a foresight, and inspires us with hopes, of which other creatures have little, and that only of things immediately before them. All these things are so many tools, arguments, by which self-love reasons us into content, and renders us patient under many afflictions, for the sake of supplying those wants that are most pressing: this is of infinite use to a man, who finds himself born in a body politic, and it must make him fond of society; whereas, the same endowment before that time, the same superiority of understanding in the state of nature, can only serve to render man incurably averse to society, and more obstinately tenacious of his savage liberty, than any other creature would be, that is equally necessitous.

Hor. I do not know how to refute you: there is a justness of thought in what you say, which I am forced to assent to; and yet it seems strange: How come you by this insight into the heart of man, and which way is that skill of unravelling human nature to be obtained?

Cleo. By diligently observing what excellencies and qualifications are really acquired in a well-accomplished man; and having done this impartially, we may be sure that the remainder of him is nature. It is for want of duly separating and keeping asunder these two things, that men have uttered such absurdities on this subject; alleging as the causes of man’s fitness for society, such qualifications as no man ever was endued with, that was not educated in a society, a civil establishment, of several hundred years standing. But the flatterers of our species keep this carefully from our view: instead of separating what is acquired from what is natural, and distinguishing between them, they take pains to unite and confound them together.

Hor. Why do they? I do not see the compliment; since the acquired, as well as natural parts, belong to the same person; and the one is not more inseparable from him than the other.

Cleo. Nothing is so near to a man, nor so really and entirely his own, as what he has from nature; and when that dear self, for the sake of which he values or despises, loves or hates every thing else, comes to be stript and abstracted from all foreign acquisitions, human nature makes a poor figure: it shows a nakedness, or at least an undress, which no man cares to be seen in. There is nothing we can be possessed of that is worth having, which we do not endeavour, closely to annex, and make an ornament of to ourselves; even wealth and power, and all the gifts of fortune, that are plainly adventitious, and altogether remote from our persons; whilst they are our right and property, we do not love to be considered without them. We see likewise that men, who are come to be great in the world from despicable beginnings, do not love to hear of their origin.

Hor. That is no general rule.

Cleo. I believe it is, though there may be exceptions from it; and these are not without reasons. When a man is proud of his parts, and wants to be esteemed for his diligence, penetration, quickness and assiduity, he will make perhaps an ingenuous confession, even to the exposing of his parents; and in order to set off the merit that raised him, bespeaking himself of his original meanness. But this is commonly done before inferiors, whose envy will be lessened by it, and who will applaud his candour and humility in owning this blemish: but not a word of this before his betters, who value themselves upon their families; and such men could heartily wish that their parentage was unknown, whenever they are with those that are their equals in quality, though superior to them in birth; by whom they know that they are hated for their advancement, and despised for the lowness of their extraction. But I have a shorter way of proving my assertion. Pray, is it good manners to tell a man that he is meanly born, or to hint at his descent, when it is known to be vulgar?

Hor. No: I do not say it is.

Cleo. That decides it, by showing the general opinion about it. Noble ancestors, and every thing else that is honourable and esteemed, and can be drawn within our sphere, are an advantage to our persons, and we all desire they should be looked upon as our own.

Hor. Ovid did not think so, when he said, Nam genus & proavos & quæ non fecimus ipsi, vix ea nostra voco.

Cleo. A pretty piece of modesty in a speech, where a man takes pains to prove that Jupiter was his great grandfather. What signifies a theory, which a man destroys by his practice? Did you ever know a person of quality pleased with being called a bastard, though he owed his being, as well as his greatness, chiefly to his mother’s impudicity?

Hor. By things acquired, I thought you meant learning and virtue; how come you to talk of birth and descent?

Cleo. By showing you, that men are unwilling to have any thing that is honourable separated from themselves, though it is remote from, and has nothing to do with their persons: I would convince you of the little probability there is, that we should be pleased with being considered, abstract from what really belongs to us; and qualifications, that in the opinion of the best and wisest are the only things for which we ought to be valued. When men are well-accomplished, they are ashamed of the lowest steps from which they rose to that perfection; and the more civilized they are, the more they think it injurious to have their nature seen, without the improvements that have been made upon it. The most correct authors would blush to see every thing published, which in the composing of their works they blotted out and stifled; and which yet it is certain they once conceived: for this reason they are justly compared to architects, that remove the scaffolding before they show their buildings. All ornaments bespeak the value we have for the things adorned. Do not you think, that the first red or white that ever was laid upon a face, and the first false hair that was wore, were put on with great secrecy, and with a design to deceive?

Hor. In France, painting is now looked upon as part of a woman’s dress; they make no mystery of it.

Cleo. So it is with all the impositions of this nature, when they come to be so gross that they can be hid no longer; as men’s perukes all over Europe: but if these things could be concealed, and were not known, the tawny coquette would heartily wish that the ridiculous dawbing she plasters herself with might pass for complexion; and the bald-pated beau would be as glad to have his full-bottomed wig looked upon as a natural head of hair. Nobody puts in artificial teeth, but to hide the loss of his own.

Hor. But is not a man’s knowledge a real part of himself?

Cleo. Yes, and so is his politeness; but neither of them belong to his nature, any more than his gold watch or his diamond ring; and even from these he endeavours to draw a value and respect to his person. The most admired among the fashionable people that delight in outward vanity, and know how to dress well, would be highly displeased if their clothes, and skill in putting them on, should be looked upon otherwise than as part of themselves; nay, it is this part of them only, which, whilst they are unknown, can procure them access to the highest companies, the courts of princes; where it is manifest, that both sexes are either admitted or refused, by no other judgment than what is formed of them from their dress, without the least regard to their goodness, or their understanding.

Hor. I believe I apprehend you. It is our fondness of that self, which we hardly know what it consists in, that could first make us think of embellishing our persons; and when we have taken pains in correcting, polishing, and beautifying nature, the same self-love makes us unwilling to have the ornaments seen separately from the thing adorned.

Cleo. The reason is obvious. It is that self we are in love with, before it is adorned, as well as after, and every thing which is confessed to be acquired, seems to point at our original nakedness, and to upbraid us with our natural wants; I would say, the meanness and deficiency of our nature. That no bravery is so useful in war, as that which is artificial, is undeniable; yet the soldier, that by art and discipline has manifestly been tricked and wheedled into courage, after he has behaved himself in two or three battles with intrepidity, will never endure to hear that he has not natural valour; though all his acquaintance, as well as himself, remember the time that he was an arrant coward.

Hor. But since the love, affection, and benevolence we naturally have for our species, is not greater than other creatures have for theirs, how comes it, that man gives more ample demonstrations of this love on thousand occasions, than any other animal?

Cleo. Because no other animal has the same capacity or opportunity to do it. But you may ask the same of his hatred: the greater knowledge and the more wealth and power a man has, the more capable he is of rendering others sensible of the passion he is affected with, as well when he hates as when he loves them. The more a man remains uncivilized, and the less he is removed from the state of nature, the less his love is to be depended upon.

Hor. There is more honesty and less deceit among plain, untaught people, than there is among those that are more artful; and therefore I should have looked for true love and unfeigned affection among those that live in a natural simplicity, rather than any where else.

Cleo. You speak of sincerity; but the love which I said was less to be depended upon in untaught than in civilized people, I supposed to be real and sincere in both. Artful people may dissemble love, and pretend to friendship, where they have none; but they are influenced by their passions and natural appetites as well as savages, though they gratify them in another manner: well-bred people behave themselves in the choice of diet and the taking of their repasts, very differently from savages; so they do in their amours; but hunger and lust are the same in both. An artful man, nay, the greatest hypocrite, whatever his behaviour is abroad, may love his wife and children at his heart, and the sincerest man can do no more. My business is to demonstrate to you, that the good qualities men compliment our nature and the whole species with, are the result of art and education. The reason why love is little to be depended upon in those that are uncivilized, is because the passions in them are more fleeting and inconstant; they oftener jostle out and succeed one another, than they are and do in well-bred people, persons that are well educated, have learned to study their ease and the comforts of life; to tie themselves up to rules and decorums for their own advantage, and often to submit to small inconveniencies to avoid greater. Among the lowest vulgar, and those of the meanest education of all, you seldom see a lasting harmony: you shall have a man and his wife that have a real affection for one another, be full of love one hour, and disagree the next for a trifle; and the lives of many are made miserable from no other faults in themselves, than their want of manners and discretion. Without design they will often talk imprudently, until they raise one another’s anger; which neither of them being able to stifle, she scolds at him; he beats her; she bursts out into tears; this moves him, he is sorry; both repent, and are friends again: and with all the sincerity imaginable resolve never to quarrel for the future, as long as they live: all this will pass between them in less than half a day, and will perhaps be repeated once a month, or oftener, as provocations offer, or either of them is more or less prone to anger. Affection never remained long uninterrupted between two persons without art; and the best friends, if they are always together, will fall out, unless great discretion be used on both sides.

Hor. I have always been of your opinion, that the more men were civilized the happier they were; but since nations can never be made polite but by length of time, and mankind must have been always miserable before they had written laws, how come poets and others to launch out so much in praise of the golden age, in which they pretend there was so much peace, love, and sincerity?

Cleo. For the same reason that heralds compliment obscure men of unknown extraction with illustrious pedigrees: as there is no mortal of high descent, but who values himself upon his family, so extolling the virtue and happiness of their ancestors, can never fail pleasing every member of a society: but what stress would you lay upon the fictions of poets?

Hor. You reason very clearly, and with great freedom, against all heathen superstition, and never suffer yourself to be imposed upon by any fraud from that quarter; but when you meet with any thing belonging to the Jewish or Christian religion, you are as credulous as any of the vulgar.

Cleo. I am sorry you should think so.

Hor. What I say is fact. A man that contentedly swallows every thing that is said of Noah and his ark, ought not to laugh at the story of Deucalion and Pyrrha.

Cleo. Is it as credible, that human creatures should spring from stones, because an old man and his wife threw them over their heads, as that a man and his family, with a great number of birds and beasts, should be preserved in a large ship, made convenient for that purpose?

Hor. But you are partial: what odds is there between a stone and a lump of earth, for either of them to become a human creature? I can as easily conceive how a stone should be turned into a man or a woman, as how a man or a woman should be turned into a stone; and I think it not more strange, that a woman should be changed into a tree, as was Daphne, or into marble as Niobe, than that she should be transformed into a pillar of salt, as the wife of Lot was. Pray suffer me to catechise you a little.

Cleo. You will hear me afterwards, I hope.

Hor. Yes, yes. Do you believe Hesiod?

Cleo. No.

Hor. Ovid’s Metamorphosis?

Cleo. No.

Hor. But you believe the story of Adam and Eve, and Paradise.

Cleo. Yes.

Hor. That they were produced at once, I mean at their full growth; he from a lump of earth, and she from one of his ribs?

Cleo. Yes.

Hor. And that as soon as they were made, they could speak, reason, and were endued with knowledge?

Cleo. Yes.

Hor. In short, you believe the innocence, the delight, and all the wonders of Paradise, that are related by one man; at the same time that you will not believe what has been told us by many, of the uprightness, the concord, and the happiness of a golden age.

Cleo. That is very true.

Hor. Now give me leave to show you, how unaccountable, as well as partial, you are in this. In the first place, the things naturally impossible, which you believe, are contrary to your own doctrine, the opinion you have laid down, and which I believe to be true: for you have proved, that no man would ever be able to speak, unless he was taught it; that reasoning and thinking come upon us by slow degrees; and that we can know nothing that has not from without been conveyed to the brain, and communicated to us through the organs of the senses. Secondly, in what you reject as fabulous, there is no manner of improbability. We know from history, and daily experience teaches us, that almost all the wars and private quarrels that have at any time disturbed mankind, have had their rise from the differences about superiority, and the meum & tuum: therefore before cunning, covetousness and deceit, crept into the world; before titles of honour, and the distinction between servant and master were known; why might not moderate numbers of people have lived together in peace and amity, when they enjoyed every thing in common; and have been content with the product of the earth in a fertile soil and a happy climate? Why cannot you believe this?

Cleo. Because it is inconsistent with the nature of human creatures, that any number of them should ever live together in tolerable concord, without laws or government, let the soil, the climate, and their plenty be whatever the most luxuriant imagination shall be pleased to fancy them. But Adam was altogether the workmanship of God; a preternatural production: his speech and knowledge, his goodness and innocence were as miraculous, as every other part of his frame.

Hor. Indeed, Cleomenes, this is insufferable; when we are talking philosophy you foist in miracles: why may not I do the same, and lay that the people of the golden age were made happy by miracle?

Cleo. It is more probable that one miracle should, at a stated time, have produced a male and female, from whom all the rest of mankind are descended in a natural way; than that by a continued series of miracles several generations of people should have all been made to live and act contrary to their nature; for this must follow from the account we have of the golden and silver ages. In Moses, the first natural man, the first that was born of a woman, by envying and slaying his brother, gives an ample evidence of the domineering spirit, and the principle of sovereignty, which I have asserted to belong to our nature.

Hor. You will not be counted credulous, and yet you believe all those stories, which even some of our divines have called ridiculous, if literally understood. But I do not insist upon the golden age, if you will give up Paradise: a man of sense, and a philosopher, should believe neither.

Cleo. Yet you have told me that you believed the Old and New Testament.

Hor. I never said that I believed every thing that is in them, in a literal sense. But why should you believe miracles at all?

Cleo. Because I cannot help it: and I promise never to mention the name to you again, if you can show me the bare possibility that man could ever have been produced, brought into the world without miracle. Do you believe there ever was a man who had made himself?

Hor. No: that is a plain contradiction.

Cleo. Then it is manifest the first man must have been made by something; and what I say of man, I may say of all matter and motion in general. The doctrine of Epicurus, that every thing is derived from the concourse and fortuitous jumble of atoms, is monstrous and extravagant beyond all other follies.

Hor. Yet there is no mathematical demonstration against it.

Cleo. Nor is there one to prove, that the sun is not in love with the moon, if one had a mind to advance it; and yet I think it a greater reproach to human understanding to believe either, than it is to believe the most childish stories that are told of fairies and hobgoblins.

Hor. But there is an axiom very little inferior to a mathematical demonstration, ex nihilo nihil fit, that is directly clashing with, and contradicts the creation out of nothing. Do you understand how something can come from nothing?

Cleo. I do not, I confess, any more than I can comprehend eternity, or the Deity itself: but when I cannot comprehend what my reason assures me must necessarily exist, there is no axiom or demonstration clearer to me, than that the fault lies in my want of capacity, the shallowness of my understanding. From the little we know of the sun and stars, their magnitudes, distances, and motion; and what we are more nearly acquainted with, the gross visible parts in the structure of animals and their economy, it is demonstrable, that they are the effects of an intelligent cause, and the contrivance of a Being infinite in wisdom as well as power.

Hor. But let wisdom be as superlative, and power as extensive as it is possible for them to be, still it is impossible to conceive how they should exert themselves, unless they had something to act upon.

Cleo. This is not the only thing which, though it be true, we are not able to conceive: How came the first man to exist? and yet here we are. Heat and moisture are the plain effects from manifest causes, and though they bear a great sway, even in the mineral as well as the animal and vegetable world, yet they cannot produce a sprig of grass without a previous seed.

Hor. As we ourselves, and every thing we see, are the undoubted parts of some one whole, some are of opinion, that this all, the τὸ παν, the universe, was from all eternity.

Cleo. This is not more satisfactory or comprehensible than the system of Epicurus, who derives every thing from wild chance, and an undesigned struggle of senseless atoms. When we behold things which our reason tells us could not have been produced without wisdom and power, in a degree far beyond our comprehension, can any thing be more contrary to, or clashing with that same reason, than that the things in which that high wisdom and great power are visibly displayed, should be coeval with the wisdom and power themselves that contrived and wrought them? Yet this doctrine which is spinosism in epitome, after having been neglected many years, begins to prevail again, and the atoms lose ground: for of atheism, as well as superstition, there are different kinds that have their periods and returns, after they have been long exploded.

Hor. What makes you couple together two things so diametrically opposite?

Cleo. There is greater affinity between them than you imagine: they are of the same origin.

Hor. What, atheism and superstition!

Cleo. Yes, indeed; they both have their rise from the same cause, the same defect in the mind of man, our want of capacity in discerning truth, and natural ignorance of the Divine essence. Men that from their most early youth have not been imbued with the principles of the true religion, and have not afterwards continued to be strictly educated in the same, are all in great danger of falling either into the one or the other, according to the difference there is in the temperament and complexion they are of, the circumstances they are in, and the company they converse with. Weak minds, and those that are brought up in ignorance, and a low condition, such as are much exposed to fortune, men of slavish principles, the covetous and mean-spirited, are all naturally inclined to, and easily susceptible of superstition; and there is no absurdity so gross, nor contradiction so plain, which the dregs of the people, most gamesters, and nineteen women in twenty, may not be taught to believe, concerning invisible causes. Therefore multitudes are never tainted with irreligion; and the less civilized nations are, the more boundless is their credulity. On the contrary, men of parts and spirit, of thought and reflection, the assertors of liberty, such as meddle with mathematics and natural philosophy, most inquisitive men, the disinterested that live in ease and plenty; if their youth has been neglected, and they are not well-grounded in the principles of the true religion, are prone to infidelity; especially such amongst them, whose pride and sufficiency are greater than ordinary; and if persons of this sort fall into hands of unbelievers, they run great hazard of becoming atheists or sceptics.

Hor. The method of education you recommend, in pinning men down to an opinion, may be very good to make bigots, and raise a strong party to the priests; but to have good subjects, and moral men, nothing is better than to inspire youth with the love of virtue, and strongly to imbue them with sentiments of justice and probity, and the true notions of honour and politeness. These are the true specifics to cure man’s nature, and destroy in him the savage principles of sovereignty and selfishness, that infest and are so mischievous to it. As to religious matters, prepossessing the mind, and forcing youth into a belief, is more partial and unfair, than it is to leave them unbiassed, and unprejudiced till they come to maturity, and are fit to judge as well as choose for themselves.

Cleo. It is this fair and impartial management you speak in praise of, that will ever promote and increase unbelief; and nothing has contributed more to the growth of deism in this kingdom, than the remissness of education in sacred matters, which for some time has been in fashion among the better sort.

Hor. The public welfare ought to be our principal care; and I am well assured, that it is not bigotry to a sect or persuasion; but common honesty, uprightness in all dealings, and benevolence to one another, which the society stands most in need of.

Cleo. I do not speak up for bigotry; and where the Christian religion is thoroughly taught as it should be, it is impossible, that honesty, uprightness or benevolence should ever be forgot; and no appearances of those virtues are to be trusted to, unless they proceed from that motive; for without the belief of another world, a man is under no obligation for his sincerity in this: his very oath is no tie upon him.

Hor. What is it upon an hypocrite that dares to be perjured?

Cleo. No man’s oath is ever taken, if it is known that once he has been forsworn; nor can I ever be deceived by an hypocrite, when he tells me that he is one; and I shall never believe a man to be an atheist, unless he owns it himself.

Hor. I do not believe there are real atheists in the world.

Cleo. I will not quarrel about words; but our modern deism is no greater security than atheism: for a man’s acknowledging the being of a God, even an intelligent first Cause, is of no use, either to himself or others, if he denies, a Providence and a future state.

Hor. After all, I do not think that virtue has any more relation to credulity, than it has to want of faith.

Cleo. Yet it would and ought to have, if we were consistent with ourselves; and if men were swayed in their actions by the principles they side with, and the opinion they profess themselves to be of, all atheists would be devils, and superstitious men saints: but this is not true; there are atheists of good morals, and great villains superstitious: nay, I do not believe there is any wickedness that the worst atheist can commit, but superstitious men may be guilty of it; impiety not excepted; for nothing is more common amongst rakes and gamesters, than to hear men blaspheme, that believe in spirits, and are afraid of the devil. I have no greater opinion of superstition than I have of atheism; what I aimed at, was to prevent and guard against both; and I am persuaded that there is no other antidote to be obtained by human means, so powerful and infallible against the poison of either, as what I have mentioned. As to the truth of our descent from Adam, I would not be a believer, and cease to be a rational creature: what I have to say for it, is this. We are convinced that human understanding is limited; and by the help of every little reflection, we may be as certain that the narrowness of its bounds, its being so limited, is the very thing, the sole cause, which palpably hinders us from diving into our origin by dint of penetration: the consequence is, that to come at the truth of this origin, which is of very great concern to us, something is to be believed: but what or whom to believe is the question. If I cannot demonstrate to you that Moses was divinely inspired, you will be forced to confess, that there never was any thing more extraordinary in the world, than that, in a most superstitious age, one man brought up among the grossest idolaters, that had the vilest and most abominable notions of the Godhead, should, without help, as we know of, find out the most hidden and most important truths by his natural capacity only; for, besides the deep insight he had in human nature, as appears from the decalogue, it is manifest that he was acquainted with the creation out of nothing, the unity and immense greatness of that Invisible Power that has made the universe; and that he taught this to the Israelites, fifteen centuries before any other nation upon earth was so far enlightened: it is undeniable, moreover, that the history of Moses, concerning the beginning of the world and mankind, is the most ancient and least improbable of any that are extant; that others, who have wrote after him on the same subject, appear most of them to be imperfect copiers of him; and that the relations which seem not to have been borrowed from Moses, as the accounts we have of Sommona-codam, Confucius, and others, are less rational, and fifty times more extravagant and incredible, than any thing contained in the Pentateuch. As to the things revealed, the plan itself, abstract from faith and religion; when we have weighed every system that has been advanced, we shall find; that, since we must have had a beginning, nothing is more rational or more agreeable to good sense, than to derive our origin from an incomprehensible creative Power, that was the first Mover and Author of all things.

Hor. I never heard any body entertain higher notions, or more noble sentiments of the Deity, than at different times I have heard from you; pray, when you read Moses, do not you meet with several things in the economy of Paradise, and the conversation between God and Adam, that seem to be low, unworthy, and altogether inconsistent with the sublime ideas you are used to form of the Supreme Being.

Cleo. I freely own, not only that I have thought so, but likewise that I have long stumbled at it: but when I consider, on the one hand, that the more human knowledge increases, the more consummate and unerring the Divine Wisdom appears to be, in every thing we can have any insight into; and on the other, that the things hitherto detected, either by chance or industry, are very inconsiderable both in number and value, if compared to the vast multitude of weightier matters that are left behind and remain still undiscovered: When, I say, I consider these things, I cannot help thinking, that there may be very wise reasons for what we find fault with, that are, and perhaps ever will be, unknown to men as long the world endures.

Hor. But why should he remain labouring under difficulties we can easily solve, and not say with Dr. Burnet, and several others, that those things are allegories, and to be understood in a figurative sense?

Cleo. I have nothing against it; and shall always applaud the ingenuity and good offices of men, who endeavour to reconcile religious mysteries to human reason and probability; but I insist upon it, that nobody can disprove any thing that is said in the Pentateuch, in the most literal sense; and I defy the wit of man to frame or contrive a story, the best concerted fable they can invent, how man came into the world, which I shall not find as much fault with, and be able to make as strong objections to, as the enemies of religion have found with, and raised against the account of Moses: If I may be allowed to take the same liberty with their known forgery, which they take with the Bible, before they have brought one argument against the veracity of it.

Hor. It may be so. But as first I was the occasion of this long digression, by mentioning the golden age; so now, I desire we may return to our subject. What time, how many ages do you think it would require to have a well-civilized nation from such a savage pair as yours?

Cleo. That is very uncertain; and I believe it impossible, to determine any thing about it. From what has been said, it is manifest, that the family descending from such a stock, would be crumbled to pieces, reunited, and dispersed again several times, before the whole of any part of it could be advanced to any degree of politeness. The best forms of government are subject to revolutions, and a great many things must concur to keep a society of men together, till they become a civilized nation.

Hor. Is not a vast deal owing, in the raising of a nation, to the difference there is in the spirit and genius of people?

Cleo. Nothing, but what depends upon climates, which is soon over-balanced by skilful government. Courage and cowardice, in all bodies of men, depend entirely upon exercise and discipline. Arts and sciences seldom come before riches, and both flow in faster or slower, according to the capacity of the governors, the situation of the people, and the opportunities they have of improvements; but the first is the chief: to preserve peace and tranquillity among multitudes of different views, and make them all labour for one interest, is a great task; and nothing in human affairs requires greater knowledge, than the art of governing.

Hor. According to your system, it should be little more, than guarding against human nature.

Cleo. But it is a great while before that nature can be rightly understood; and it is the work of ages to find out the true use of the passions, and to raise a politician that can make every frailty of the members add strength to the whole body, and by dextrous management turn private Vices into public Benefits.

Hor. It must be a great advantage to an age, when many extraordinary persons are born in it.

Cleo. It is not genius, so much as experience, that helps men to good laws: Solon, Lycurgus, Socrates and Plato, all travelled for their knowledge, which they communicated to others. The wisest laws of human invention are generally owing to the evasions of bad men, whose cunning had eluded the force of former ordinances that had been made with less caution.

Hor. I fancy that the invention of iron, and working the oar into a metal, must contribute very much to the completing of society; because men can have no tools nor agriculture without it.

Cleo. Iron is certainly very useful; but shells and flints, and hardening of wood by fire, are substitutes that men make a shift with; if they can but have peace, live in quiet, and enjoy the fruits of their labour. Could you ever have believed, that a man without hands could have shaved himself, wrote good characters, and made use of a needle and thread with his feet? Yet this we have seen. It is said by some men of reputation, that the Americans in Mexico and Peru have all the signs of an infant world; because, when the Europeans first came among them, they wanted a great many things, that seem to be of easy invention. But considering that they had nobody to borrow from, and no iron at all, it is amazing which way they could arrive at the perfection we found them in. First, it is impossible to know, how long multitudes may have been troublesome to one another, before the invention of letters came among them, and they had any written laws. Secondly, from the many chasms in history, we know by experience, that the accounts of transactions and times in which letters are known, may be entirely lost. Wars and human discord may destroy the most civilized nations, only by dispersing them; and general devastations spare arts and sciences no more than they do cities and palaces. That all men are born with a strong desire, and no capacity at all to govern, has occasioned an infinity of good and evil. Invasions and persecutions, by mixing and scattering our species, have made strange alterations in the world. Sometimes large empires are divided into several parts, and produce new kingdoms and principalities; at others, great conquerors in few years bring different nations under one dominion. From the decay of the Roman empire alone we may learn, that arts and sciences are more perishable, much sooner lost, than buildings or inscriptions; and that a deluge of ignorance may overspread countries, without their ceasing to be inhabited.

Hor. But what is it at last, that raises opulent cities and powerful nations from the smallest beginnings?

Cleo. Providence.

Hor. But Providence makes use of means that are visible; I want to know the engines it is performed with.

Cleo. All the ground work that is required to aggrandize nations, you have seen in the Fable of the Bees. All sound politics, and the whole art of governing, are entirely built upon the knowledge of human nature. The great business in general of a politician is to promote, and, if he can, reward all good and useful actions on the one hand; and on the other, to punish, or at least discourage every thing that is destructive or hurtful to society. To name particulars would be an endless task. Anger, lust, and pride, may be the causes of innumerable mischiefs, that are all carefully to be guarded against: but setting them aside, the regulations only that are required to defeat and prevent all the machinations and contrivances that avarice and envy may put man upon, to the detriment of his neighbour, are almost infinite. Would you be convinced of these truths, do but employ yourself for a month or two, in surveying and minutely examining into every art and science, every trade, handicraft and occupation, that are professed and followed in such a city as London; and all the laws, prohibitions, ordinances and restrictions that have been found absolutely necessary, to hinder both private men and bodies corporate, in so many different stations, first from interfering with the public peace and welfare; secondly, from openly wronging and secretly over-reaching, or any other way injuring one another: if you will give yourself this trouble, you will find the number of clauses and provisos, to govern a large flourishing city well, to be prodigious beyond imagination; and yet every one of them tending to the same purpose, the curbing, restraining, and disappointing the inordinate passions, and hurtful frailties of man. You will find, moreover, which is still more to be admired, the greater part of the articles in this vast multitude of regulations, when well understood, to be the result of consummate wisdom.

Hor. How could these things exist, if there had not been men of very bright parts and uncommon talents?

Cleo. Among the things I hint at, there are very few that are the work of one man, or of one generation; the greatest part of them are the product, the joint labour of several ages. Remember what in our third conversation I told you, concerning the arts of ship-building and politeness. The wisdom I speak of, is not the offspring of a fine understanding, or intense thinking, but of sound and deliberate judgment, acquired from a long experience in business, and a multiplicity of observations. By this sort of wisdom, and length of time, it may be brought about, that there shall be no greater difficulty in governing a large city, than (pardon the lowness of the simile) there is in weaving of stockings.

Hor. Very low indeed.

Cleo. Yet I know nothing to which the laws and established economy of a well ordered city may be more justly compared, than the knitting-frame. The machine, at first view, is intricate and unintelligible; yet the effects of it are exact and beautiful; and in what is produced by it, there is a surprising regularity: but the beauty and exactness in the manufacture are principally, if not altogether, owing to the happiness of the invention, the contrivance of the engine. For the greatest artist at it can furnish us with no better work, than may be made by almost any scoundrel after half a year’s practice.

Hor. Though your comparison be low, I must own that it very well illustrates your meaning.

Cleo. Whilst you spoke, I have thought of another, which is better. It is common now, to have clocks that are made to play several tunes with great exactness: the study and labour, as well as trouble of disappointments, which, in doing and undoing, such a contrivance must necessarily have cost from the beginning to the end, are not to be thought of without astonishment; there is something analogous to this in the government of a flourishing city, that has lasted uninterrupted for several ages: there is no part of the wholesome regulations belonging to it, even the most trifling and minute, about which great pains and consideration have not been employed, as well as length of time; and if you will look into the history and antiquity of any such city, you will find that the changes, repeals, additions and amendments, that have been made in and to the laws and ordinances by which it is ruled, are in number prodigious: but that when once they are brought to as much perfection as art and human wisdom can carry them, the whole machine may be made to play of itself, with as little skill as it required to wind up a clock; and the government of a large city once put into good order, the magistrates only following their noses, will continue to go right for a while, though there was not a wise man in it; provided that the care of Providence was to watch over it in the same manner as it did before.

Hor. But supposing the government of a large city, when it is once established, to be very easy, it is not so with whole states and kingdoms: is it not a great blessing to a nation, to have all places of honour and great trust filled with men of parts and application, of probity and virtue?

Cleo. Yes; and of learning, moderation, frugality, candour and affability: look out for such as fast as you can; but in the mean time the places cannot stand open, the offices must be served by such as you can get.

Hor. You seem to insinuate, that there is a great scarcity of good men in the nation.

Cleo. I do not speak of our nation in particular, but of all states and kingdoms in general. What I would say, is, that it is the interest of every nation to have their home government, and every branch of the civil administration so wisely contrived, that every man of middling capacity and reputation may be fit for any of the highest posts.

Hor. That is absolutely impossible, at least in such a nation as ours: for what would you do for judges and chancellors?

Cleo. The study of the law is very crabbed and very tedious; but the profession of it is as gainful, and has great honours annexed to it: the consequence of this is, that few come to be eminent in it, but men of tolerable parts and great application. And whoever is a good lawyer, and not noted for dishonesty, is always fit to be a judge, as soon as he is old and grave enough. To be a lord chancellor, indeed, requires higher talents; and he ought not only to be a good lawyer and an honest man, but likewise a person of general knowledge and great penetration. But this is but one man: and considering what I have said of the law, and the power which ambition and the love of gain have upon mankind, it is morally impossible, that, in the common course of things among the practitioners in chancery, there should not at all times be one or other fit for the seals.

Hor. Must not every nation have men that are fit for public negotiations, and persons of great capacity to serve for envoys, ambassadors and plenipotentiaries? must they not have others at home, that are likewise able to treat with foreign ministers?

Cleo. That every nation must have such people, is certain; but I wonder that the company you have kept both at home and abroad, have not convinced you that the things you speak of require no such extraordinary qualifications. Among the people of quality that are bred up in courts of princes, all middling capacities must be persons of address, and a becoming boldness, which are the most useful talents in all conferences and negotiations.

Hor. In a nation so involved in debts of different kinds, and loaded with such a variety of taxes as ours is, to be thoroughly acquainted with all the funds, and the appropriations of them, must be a science not to be attained to without good natural parts and great application; and therefore the chief management of the treasury must be a post of the highest trust, as well as endless difficulty.

Cleo. I do not think so: most branches of the public administration are in reality less difficult to those that are in them, than they seem to be to those that are out of them, and are strangers to them. If a jack and the weights of it were out of sight, a sensible man unacquainted with that matter, would be very much puzzled, if he was to account for the regular turning of two or three spits well loaded, for hours together; and it is ten to one, but he would have a greater opinion of the cook or the scullion, than either of them deserved. In all business that belong to the exchequer, the constitution does nine parts in ten; and has taken effectual care, that the happy person whom the king shall be pleased to favour with the superintendency of it, should never be greatly tired or perplexed with his office; and likewise that the trust, the confidence that must be reposed in him, should be very near as moderate as his trouble. By dividing the employments in a great office, and subdividing them into many parts, every man’s business may be made so plain and certain, that, when he is a little used to it, it is hardly possible for him to make mistakes: and again, by careful limitations of every man’s power, and judicious checks upon every body’s trust, every officer’s fidelity may be placed in so clear a light, that the moment he forfeits it, he must be detected. It is by these arts that the weightiest affairs, and a vast multiplicity of them, may be managed with safety as well as dispatch, by ordinary men, whose highest good is wealth and pleasure; and that the utmost regularity may be observed in a great office, and every part of it; at the same time, that the whole economy of it seems to be intricate and perplexed to the last degree, not only to strangers, but the greatest part of the very officers that are employed in it.

Hor. The economy of our exchequer, I own, is an admirable contrivance to prevent frauds and encroachments of all kinds; but in the office, which is at the head of it, and gives motion to it, there is greater latitude.

Cleo. Why so? A lord treasurer, or if his office be executed by commissioners, the chancellor of the exchequer, are no more lawless, and have no greater power with impunity to embezzle money, than the meanest clerk that is employed under them.

Hor. Is not the king’s warrant their discharge?

Cleo. Yes; for sums which the king has a right to dispose of, or the payment of money for uses directed by parliament; not otherwise; and if the king, who can do no wrong, should be imposed upon, and his warrant be obtained for money at random, whether it is appropriated or not, contrary to, or without a direct order of the legislature, the treasurer obeys at his peril.

Hor. But there are other posts, or at least there is one still of higher moment, and that requires a much greater, and more general capacity than any yet named.

Cleo. Pardon me: as the lord chancellor’s is the highest office in dignity, so the execution of it actually demands greater, and more uncommon abilities than any other whatever.

Hor. What say you to the prime minister who governs all, and acts immediately under the king?

Cleo. There is no such officer belonging to our constitution; for by this, the whole administration is, for very wise reasons, divided into several branches.

Hor. But who must give orders and instructions to admirals, generals, governors, and all our ministers in foreign courts? Who is to take care of the king’s interest throughout the kingdom, and of his safety?

Cleo. The king and his council, without which, royal authority is not supposed to act, superintend, and govern all; and whatever the monarch has not a mind immediately to take care of himself, falls in course to that part of the administration it belongs to, in which every body has plain laws to walk by. As to the king’s interest, it is the same with that of the nation; his guards are to take care of his person; and there is no business of what nature soever, that can happen in or to the nation, which is not within the province, and under the inspection of some one or other of the great officers of the crown, that are all known, dignified, and distinguished by their respective titles; and amongst them, I can assure you, there is no such name as prime minister.

Hor. But why will you prevaricate with me after this manner? You know yourself, and all the world knows and sees, that there is such a minister; and it is easily proved, that there always have been such ministers: and in the situation we are, I do not believe a king could do without. When there are a great many disaffected people in the kingdom, and parliament-men are to be chosen, elections must be looked after with great care, and a thousand things are to be done, that are necessary to disappoint the sinister ends of malecontents, and keep out the Pretender; things of which the management often requires great penetration, and uncommon talents, as well as secrecy and dispatch.

Cleo. How sincerely soever you may seem to speak in defence of these things, Horatio, I am sure, from your principles, that you are not in earnest. I am not to judge of the exigency of our affairs: But as I would not pry into the conduct, or scan the actions of princes, and their ministers, so I pretend to justify or defend no wisdom but that of the constitution itself.

Hor. I do not desire you should: Only tell me, whether you do not think, that a man, who has and can carry this vast burden upon his shoulders, and all Europe’s business in his breast, must be a person of a prodigious genius, as well as general knowledge, and other great abilities.

Cleo. That a man, invested with so much real power, and an authority so extensive, as such ministers generally have, must make a great figure, and be considerable above all other subjects, is most certain: But it is my opinion, that there are always fifty men in the kingdom, that, if employed, would be fit for this post, and, after a little practice, shine in it, to one who is equally qualified to be a Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain. A prime minster has a vast, an unspeakable advantage barely by being so, and by every body’s knowing him to be, and treating him as such: A man who in every office, and every branch of it throughout the administration, has the power, as well as the liberty, to ask and see whom and what he pleases, has more knowledge within his reach, and can speak of every thing with greater exactness than any other man, that is much better versed in affairs, and has ten times greater capacity. It is hardly possible, than an active man, of tolerable education, that is not destitute of a spirit nor of vanity, should fail of appearing to be wise, vigilant, and expert, who has the opportunity whenever he thinks fit, to make use of all the cunning and experience, as well as diligence and labour of every officer in the civil administration; and if he has but money enough, and will employ men to keep up a strict correspondence in every part of the kingdom, he can remain ignorant of nothing; and there is hardly any affair or transaction, civil or military, foreign or domestic, which he will not be able greatly to influence, when he has a mind either to promote or obstruct it.

Hor. There seems to be a great deal in what you say, I must confess; but I begin to suspect, that what often inclines me to be of your opinion, is your dexterity in placing things in the light you would have seen them in, and the great skill you have in depreciating what is valuable, and detracting from merit.

Cleo. I protest that I speak from my heart.

Hor. When I reflect on what I have beheld with my own eyes, and what I still see every day of the transactions between statesmen and politicians, I am very well assured you are in the wrong: When I consider all the stratagems, and the force as well as finesse that are made use of to supplant and undo prime ministers, the wit and cunning, industry and address, that are employed to misrepresent all their actions, the calumnies and false reports that are spread of them, the ballads and lampoons that are published, the set speeches and studied invectives that are made against them; when I consider, I say, and reflect on these things, and every thing else that is said and done, either to ridicule or to render them odious, I am convinced, that to defeat so much art and strength, and disappoint so much malice and envy as prime ministers are generally attacked with, require extraordinary talents: No man of only common prudence and fortitude could maintain himself in that post for a twelvemonth, much less for many years together, though he understood the world very well, and had all the virtue, faithfulness, and integrity in it; therefore, there must be some fallacy in your assertion.

Cleo. Either I have been deficient in explaining myself or else I have had the misfortune to be misunderstood. When I insinuated that men might be prime ministers without extraordinary endowments, I spoke only in regard to the business itself, that province, which, if there was no such minister, the king and council would have the trouble of managing.

Hor. To direct and manage the whole machine of government, he must be a consummate statesman in the first place.

Cleo. You have too sublime a notion of that post. To be a consummate statesman, is the highest qualification human nature is capable of possessing. To deserve that name, a man must be well versed in ancient and modern history, and thoroughly acquainted with all the courts of Europe, that he may know not only the public interest in every nation, but likewise the private views, as well as inclinations, virtues, and vices of princes and ministers: Of every country in Christendom, and the borders of it, he ought to know the product and geography, the principal cities and fortresses; and of these their trade and manufactures, their situation, natural advantages, strength, and number of inhabitants; he must have read men as well as books, and perfectly well understand human nature, and the use of the passions: He must, moreover, be a great master in concealing the sentiments of his heart, have an entire command over his features, and be well skilled in all the wiles and stratagems to draw out secrets from others. A man, of whom all this, or the greatest part of it, may not be said with truth, and that he has had great experience in public affairs, cannot be called a consummate statesman; but he may be fit to be a prime minister, though he had not a hundredth part of those qualifications. As the king’s favour creates prime ministers, and makes their station the post of the greatest power as well as profit, so the same favour is the only bottom which those that are in it have to stand upon: The consequence is, that the most ambitious men in all monarchies are ever contending for this post as the highest prize, of which the enjoyment is easy, and all the difficulty in obtaining and preserving it. We see accordingly, that the accomplishments I spoke of to make a statesman are neglected, and others aimed at and studied, that are more useful and more easily acquired. The capacities you observe in prime ministers are of another nature, and consist in being finished courtiers, and thoroughly understanding the art of pleasing and cajoling with address. To procure a prince what he wants, when it is known, and to be diligent in entertaining him with the pleasures he calls for, are ordinary services: Asking is no better than complaining; therefore, being forced to ask, is to have cause of complaint, and to see a prince submit to the slavery of it, argues great rusticity in his courtiers; a polite minister penetrates into his master’s wishes, and furnishes him with what he delights in, without giving him the trouble to name it. Every common flatterer can praise and extol promiscuously every thing that is said or done, and find wisdom and prudence in the most indifferent actions; but it belongs to the skilful courtier to set fine glosses upon manifest imperfections, and make every failing, every frailty of his prince, have the real appearance of the virtues that are the nearest, or, to speak more justly, the least opposite to them. By the observance of these necessary duties, it is that the favour of princes may be long preserved, as well as obtained. Whoever can make himself agreeable at a court, will seldom fail of being thought necessary; and when a favourite has once established himself in the good opinion of his master, it is easy for him to make his own family engross the king’s ear, and keep every body from him but his own creatures: Nor is it more difficult, in length of time, to turn out of the administration every body that was not of his own bringing in, and constantly be tripping up the heels of those who attempt to raise themselves by any other interest or assistance. A prime minister has by his place great advantages over all that oppose him; one of them is, that nobody, without exception, ever filled that post but who had many enemies, whether he was a plunderer or a patriot: Which being well known, many things that are laid to a prime minister’s charge are not credited among the impartial and more discreet part of mankind, even when they are true. As to the defeating and disappointing all the envy and malice they are generally attacked with, if the favourite was to do all that himself, it would certainly, as you say, require extraordinary talents and a great capacity, as well as continual vigilance and application; but this is the province of their creatures, a task divided into a great number of parts; and every body that has the least dependence upon, or has any thing to hope from the minister, makes it his business and his study, as it is his interest, on the one hand, to cry up their patron, magnify his virtues and abilities, and justify his conduct; on the other, to exclaim against his adversaries, blacken their reputation, and play at them every engine, and the same stratagems that are made use of to supplant the minister.

Hor. Then every well-polished courtier is fit to be a prime minister, without learning or languages, skill in politics, or any other qualification besides.

Cleo. No other than what are often and easily met with: It is necessary that he should be a man, at least, of plain common sense, and not remarkable for any gross frailties or imperfections; and of such, there is no scarcity almost in any nation: He ought to be a man of tolerable health and constitution, and one who delights in vanity, that he may relish, as well as be able to bear the gaudy crowds that honour his levees, the constant addresses, bows, and cringes of solicitors, and the rest of the homage that is perpetually paid him. The accomplishment he stands most in need of, is to be bold and resolute, so as not to be easily shocked or ruffled; if he be thus qualified, has a good memory, and is, moreover, able to attend a multiplicity of business, if not with a continual presence of mind, at least seemingly without hurry or perplexity, his capacity can never fail of being extolled to the skies.

Hor. You say nothing of his virtue nor his honesty; there is a vast trust put in a prime minister: If he should be covetous, and have no probity, nor love for his country, he might make strange havoc with the public treasure.

Cleo. There is no man that has any pride, but he has some value for his reputation; and common prudence is sufficient to hinder a man of very indifferent principles from stealing, where he would be in great danger of being detected, and has no manner of security that he shall not be punished for it.

Hor. But great confidence is reposed in him where he cannot be traced; as in the money for secret services, of which, for reasons of state, it may be often improper even to mention, much more to scrutinize into the particulars; and in negotiations with other courts, should he be only swayed by selfishness and private views, without regard to virtue of the public, is it not in his power to betray his country, sell the nation, and do all manner of mischief?

Cleo. Not amongst us, where parliaments are every year sitting. In foreign affairs nothing of moment can be transacted but what all the world must know; and should any thing be done or attempted that would be palpably ruinous to the kingdom, and in the opinion of natives and foreigners grossly and manifestly clashing with our interest, it would raise a general clamour, and throw the minister into dangers, which no man of the least prudence, who intends to stay in his country, would ever run into. As to the money for secret services, and perhaps other sums, which ministers have the disposal of, and where they have great latitudes, I do not question but they have opportunities of embezzling the nation’s treasure: but to do this without being discovered, it must be done sparingly, and with great discretion: The malicious overlookers that envy them their places, and watch all their motions, are a great awe upon them: the animosities between those antagonists, and the quarrels between parties, are a considerable part of the nation’s security.

Hor. But would it not be a greater security to have men of honour, of sense and knowledge, of application and frugality, preferred to public employments?

Cleo. Yes, without doubt.

Hor. What confidence can we have in the justice or integrity of men; that, on the one hand, show themselves on all occasions mercenary and greedy after riches; and on the other, make it evident, by their manner of living, that no wealth or estate could ever suffice to support their expences, or satisfy their desires! besides, would it not be a great encouragement to virtue and merit, if from the posts of honour and profit all were to be debarred and excluded, that either wanted capacity or were enemies to business; all the selfish, ambitious, vain, and voluptuous?

Cleo. Nobody disputes it with you; and if virtue, religion, and future happiness were sought after by the generality of mankind, with the same solicitude, as sensual pleasure, politeness, and worldly glory are, it would certainly be best that none but men of good lives, and known ability, should have any place in the government whatever: but to expert that this ever should happen, or to live in hopes of it in a large, opulent, and flourishing kingdom, is to betray great ignorance in human affairs? and whoever reckons a general temperance, frugality, and disinterestedness among the national blessings, and at the same time solicits Heaven for ease and plenty, and the increase of trade, seems to me, little to understand what he is about. The best of all, then, not being to be had, let us look out for the next best, and we shall find, that of all possible means to secure and perpetuate to nations their establishment, and whatever they value, there is no better method than with wise laws to guard and entrench their constitution, and contrive such forms of administration that the commonweal can receive no great detriment from the want of knowledge or probity of ministers, if any of them should prove less able or honest, than they could wish them. The public administration must always go forward; it is a ship that can never lie at anchor: the most knowing, the most virtuous, and the least self-interested ministers are the best; but, in the mean time there must be ministers. Swearing and drunkenness are crying sins among seafaring men, and I should think it a very desirable blessing to the nation, if it was possible to reform them: but all this while we must have sailors; and if none were to be admitted on board of any of his majesty’s ships, that had sworn above a thousand oaths, or had been drunk above ten times in their lives, I am persuaded that the service would suffer very much by the well-meaning regulation.

Hor. Why do not you speak more openly, and say that there is no virtue or probity in the world? for all the drift of your discourse is tending to prove that.

Cleo. I have amply declared myself upon this subject already in a former conversation; and I wonder you will lay again to my charge what I once absolutely denied: I never thought that there were no virtuous or religious men; what I differ in with the flatterers of our species, is about the numbers which they contend for; and I am persuaded that you yourself, in reality, do not believe that there are so many virtuous men as you imagine you do.

Hor. How come you to know my thoughts better than I do myself?

Cleo. You know I have tried you upon this head already, when I ludicrously extolled and set a fine gloss on the merit of several callings and professions in the society, from the lowest stations of life to the highest: it then plainly appeared, that, though you have a very high opinion of mankind in general, when we come to particulars, you was as severe, and every whit as censorious as myself. I must observe one thing to you, which is worth consideration. Most, if not all people, are desirous of being thought impartial; yet nothing is more difficult than to preserve our judgment unbiassed, when we are influenced either by our love or our hatred; and how just and equitable soever people are, we see that their friends are seldom so good, or their enemies so bad as they represent them, when they are angry with the one, or highly pleased with the other. For my part, I do not think that, generally speaking, prime ministers are much worse than their adversaries, who for their own interest defame them, and at the same time, move Heaven and earth to be in their places. Let us look out for two persons of eminence in any court of Europe, that are equal in merit and capacity, and as well matched in virtues and vices, but of contrary parties; and whenever we meet with two such, one in favour and the other neglected, we shall always find that whoever is uppermost, and in great employ, has the applause of his party; and if things go tolerably well, his friends will attribute every good success to his conduct, and derive all his actions from laudable motives: the opposite side can discover no virtues in him; they will not allow him to act from any principles but his passions; and if any thing be done amiss, are very sure that it would not have happened if their patron had been in the same post. This is the way of the world. How immensely do often people of the same kingdom differ in the opinion they have of their chiefs and commanders, even when they are successful to admiration! we have been witnesses ourselves that one part of the nation has ascribed the victories of a general entirely to his consummate knowledge in martial affairs, and superlative capacity in action; and maintained that it was impossible for a man to bear all the toils and fatigues he underwent with alacrity, or to court the dangers he voluntarily exposed himself to, if he had not been supported, as well as animated, by the true spirit of heroism, and a most generous love for his country: these, you know, were the sentiments of one part of the nation, whilst the other attributed all his successes to the bravery of his troops, and the extraordinary care that was taken at home to supply his army; and insisted upon it, that from the whole course of his life, it was demonstrable, that he had never been buoyed up or actuated by any other principles than excess of ambition, and an unsatiable greediness after riches.

Hor. I do not know but I may have said so myself. But after all, the Duke of Marlborough was a very great man, an extraordinary genius.

Cleo. Indeed was he, and I am glad to hear you own it at last.

Virtutem incolumem odimus,

Sublatum ex oculis quærimus invidi.

Hor. A propos. I wish you would bid them stop for two or three minutes: some of the horses perhaps may stale the while.

Cleo. No excuses, pray. You command here. Besides, we have time enough.——Do you want to go out?

Hor. No; but I want to set down something, now I think of it, which I have heard you repeat several times. I have often had a mind to ask you for it, and it always went out of my head again. It is the epitaph which your friend made upon the Duke.

Cleo. Of Marlborough? with all my heart. Have you paper?

Hor. I will write it upon the back of this letter; and as it happens, I mended my pencil this morning. How does it begin?

Cleo. Qui belli, aut paucis virtutibus astra petebant.

Hor. Well.

Cleo. Finxerunt homines sæcula prisca Deos.

Hor. I have it. But tell me a whole distich at a time; the sense is clearer.

Cleo. Quae martem sine patre tulit, sine matre Minervam,

Illustres mendax Græcia jactet avos.

Hor. That is really a happy thought. Courage and conduct: just the two qualifications he excelled in. What is the next?

Cleo. Anglia quem genuit jacet hac, Homo, conditus Urna,

Antiqui, qualem non habuere Deum.

Hor.——I thank you. They may go on now. I have seen several things since first I heard this epitaph of you, that are manifestly borrowed from it. Was it never published?

Cleo. I believe not. The first time I saw it was the day the Duke was buried, and ever since it has been handed about in manuscript; but I never met with it in print yet.

Hor. It is worth all his Fable of the Bees, in my opinion.

Cleo. If you like it so well, I can show you a translation of it, lately done by a gentleman of Oxford, if I have not lost it. It only takes in the first and last distich, which indeed contain the main thought: The second does not carry it on, and is rather a digression.

Hor. But it demonstrates the truth of the first in a very convincing manner; and that Mars had no father, and Minerva no mother, is the most fortunate thing a man could wish for, who wanted to prove that the account we have of them is fabulous.

Cleo. Oh, here it is. I do not know whether you can read it; I copied it in haste.

Hor. Very well.

The grateful ages past a God declar’d,

Who wisely council’d, or who bravely war’d:

Hence Greece her Mars and Pallas deify’d;

Made him the heroe’s, her the patriot’s guide.

Ancients, within this urn a mortal lies

Shew me his peer among your deities.

It is very good.

Cleo. Very lively; and what is aimed at in the Latin, is rather more clearly expressed in the English.

Hor. You know I am fond of no English verse but Milton’s. But do not let this hinder our conversation.

Cleo. I was speaking of the partiality of mankind in general, and putting you in mind how differently men judged of actions, according as they liked or disliked the persons that performed them.

Hor. But before that you was arguing against the necessity, which I think there is, for men of great accomplishments and extraordinary qualifications in the administration of public affairs. Had you any thing to add?

Cleo. No; at least I do not remember that I had.

Hor. I do not believe you have an ill design in advancing these notions; but supposing them to be true, I cannot comprehend that divulging them can have any other effect than the increase of sloth and ignorance; for if men may fill the highest places in the government without learning or capacity, genius or knowledge, there is an end of all the labour of the brain, and the fatigue of hard study.

Cleo. I have made no such general assertion; but that an artful man may make a considerable figure in the highest post of the administration, and other great employments, without extraordinary talents, is certain: as to consummate statesmen, I do not believe there ever were three persons upon earth at the same time, that deserved that name. There is not a quarter of the wisdom, solid knowledge, or intrinsic worth in the world that men talk of and compliment one another with; and of virtue or religion there is not an hundredth part in reality of what there is in appearance.

Hor. I allow that those who set out from no better motives, than avarice and ambition, aim at no other ends but wealth and honour; which, if they can but get anywise they are satisfied; but men who act from principles of virtue and a public spirit, take pains with alacrity to attain the accomplishments that will make them capable of serving their country: and if virtue be so scarce, how come there to be men of skill in their professions? for that there are men of learning and men of capacity, is most certain.

Cleo. The foundation of all accomplishments must be laid in our youth, before we are able or allowed to choose for ourselves, or to judge, which is the most profitable way of employing our time. It is to good discipline, and the prudent care of parents and masters, that men are beholden for the greatest part of their improvements; and few parents are so bad as not to wish their offspring might be well accomplished: the same natural affection that makes men take pains to leave their children rich, renders them solicitous about their education. Besides, it is unfashionable, and consequently a disgrace to neglect them. The chief design of parents in bringing up their children to a calling or profession, is to procure them a livelihood. What promotes and encourages arts and sciences, is the reward, money and honour; and thousands of perfections are attained to, that would have had no existence, if men had been less proud or less covetous. Ambition, avarice, and often necessity, are great spurs to industry and application; and often rouse men from sloth and indolence, when they are grown up, whom no persuasions or chastisement of fathers or tutors, made any impression upon in their youth. Whilst professions are lucrative, and have great dignities belonging to them, there will always be men that excel in them. In a large polite nation, therefore, all sorts of learning will ever abound, whilst the people flourish. Rich parents, and such as can afford it, seldom fail bringing up their children to literature: from this inexhaustible spring it is, that we always draw much larger supplies than we stand in need of, for all the callings and professions where the knowledge of the learned languages is required. Of those that are brought up to letters, some neglect them, and throw by their books as soon as they are their own masters; others grow fonder of study, as they increase in years; but the greatest part will always retain a value for what has cost them pains to acquire. Among the wealthy, there will be always lovers of knowledge, as well as idle people: every science will have its admirers, as men differ in their tastes and pleasures; and there is no part of learning but somebody or other will look into it, and labour at it, from no better principles than some men are fox hunters, and others take delight in angling. Look upon the mighty labours of antiquaries, botanists, and the vertuosos in butterflies, cockle-shells, and other odd productions of nature; and mind the magnificent terms they all make use of in their respective provinces, and the pompous names they often give to what others, who have no taste that way, would not think worth any mortal’s notice. Curiosity is often as bewitching to the rich, as lucre is to the poor; and what interest does in some, vanity does in others; and great wonders are often produced from a happy mixture of both. Is it not amazing, that a temperate man should be at the expence of four or five thousand a-year, or, which is much the same thing, be contented to lose the interest of above a hundred thousand pounds, to have the reputation of being the possessor and owner of rarities and knicknacks in a very great abundance, at the same time that he loves money, and continues slaving for it in his old age! It is the hopes either of gain or reputation, of large revenues and great dignities that promote learning; and when we say that any calling, art or science, is not encouraged, we mean no more by it, than that the masters or professors of it are not sufficiently rewarded for their pains, either with honour or profit. The most holy functions are no exception to what I say; and few ministers of the gospel are so disinterested as to have a less regard to the honours and emoluments that are or ought to be annexed to their employment, than they have to the service and benefit they should be of to others; and among those of them that study hard and take uncommon pains, it is not easily proved that many are excited to their extraordinary labour by a public spirit or solicitude for the spiritual welfare of the laity: on the contrary, it is visible, in the greatest part of them, that they are animated by the love of glory and the hopes of preferment; neither is it common to see the most useful parts of learning neglected for the most trifling, when, from the latter, men have reason to hope that they shall have greater opportunities of showing their parts, than offer themselves from the former. Ostentation and envy have made more authors than virtue and benevolence. Men of known capacity and erudition are often labouring hard to eclipse and ruin one another’s glory. What principle must we say two adversaries act from, both men of unquestionable good sense and extensive knowledge, when all the skill and prudence they are masters of are not able to stifle, in their studied performances, and hide from the world, the rancour of their minds, the spleen and animosity they both write with against one another.

Hor. I do not say that such act from principles of virtue.

Cleo. Yet you know an instance of this in two grave divines, men of fame and great merit, of whom each would think himself very much injured, should his virtue be called in question.

Hor. When men have an opportunity, under pretence of zeal for religion, or the public good, to vent their passion, they take great liberties. What was the quarrel?

Cleo. De lana caprina.

Hor. A trifle. I cannot guess yet.

Cleo. About the metre of the comic poets among the ancients.

Hor. I know what you mean now; the manner of scanding and chanting those verses.

Cleo. Can you think of any thing belonging to literature, of less importance, or more useless?

Hor. Not readily.

Cleo. Yet the great contest between them, you see, is which of them understands it best, and has known it the longest. This instance, I think, hints to us how highly improbable it is, though men should act from no better principles than envy, avarice, and ambition, that when learning is once established, any part of it, even the most unprofitable, should ever be neglected in such a large opulent nation as ours is; where there are so many places of honour, and great revenues to be disposed of among scholars.

Hor. But since men are fit to serve in most places with so little capacity, as you insinuate, why should they give themselves that unnecessary trouble of studying hard, and acquiring more learning than there is occasion for?

Cleo. I thought I had answered that already; a great many, because they take delight in study and knowledge.

Hor. But there are men that labour at it with so much application, as to impair their healths, and actually to kill themselves with the fatigue of it.

Cleo. Not so many as there are that injure their healths, and actually kill themselves with hard drinking, which is the most unreasonable pleasure of the two, and a much greater fatigue. But I do not deny that there are men who take pains to qualify themselves in order to serve their country; what I insist upon is, that the number of those who do the same thing to serve themselves with little regard to their country, is infinitely greater. Mr. Hutcheson, who wrote the Inquiry into the Original of our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue, seems to be very expert at weighing and measuring the quantities of affection, benevolence, &c. I wish that curious metaphysician would give himself the trouble, at his leisure, to weigh two things separately: First, the real love men have for their country, abstracted from selfishness. Secondly, the ambition they have of being thought to act from that love, though they feel none. I wish, I say, that this ingenious gentleman would once weigh these two asunder; and afterwards, having taken in impartially all he could find of either, in this or any other nation, show us in his demonstrative way, what proportion the quantities bore to each other.—Quisque sibi commissus est, says Seneca; and certainly, it is not the care of others, but the care of itself, which nature has trusted and charged every individual creature with. When men exert themselves in an extraordinary manner, they generally do it to be the better for it themselves; to excel, to be talked of, and to be preferred to others, that follow the same business, or court the same favours.

Hor. Do you think it more probable, that men of parts and learning should be preferred, than others of less capacity?

Cleo. Cæteris paribus, I do.

Hor. Then you must allow that there is virtue at least in those who have the disposal of places.

Cleo. I do not say there is not; but there is likewise glory and real honour accruing to patrons for advancing men of merit; and if a person who has a good living in his gift, bestows it upon a very able man, every body applauds him, and every parishioner is counted to be particularly obliged to him. A vain man does not love to have his choice disapproved of, and exclaimed against by all the world, any more than a virtuous man; and the love of applause, which is innate to our species, would alone be sufficient to make the generality of men, and even the greatest part of the most vicious, always choose the most worthy, out of any number of candidates; if they knew the truth, and no stronger motive arising from consanguinity, friendship, interest, or something else, was to interfere with the principle I named.

Hor. But, methinks, according to your system, those should be soonest preferred that can best coax and flatter.

Cleo. Among the learned there are persons of art and address, that can mind their studies without neglecting the the world: these are the men that know how to ingratiate themselves with persons of quality; employing to the best advantage all their parts and industry for that purpose. Do but look into the lives and the deportment of such eminent men, as we have been speaking of, and you will soon discover the end and advantages they seem to propose to themselves from their hard study and severe lucubrations. When you see men in holy orders, without call or necessity, hovering about the courts of princes; when you see them continually addressing and scraping acquaintance with the favourites; when you hear them exclaim against the luxury of the age, and complain of the necessity they are under of complying with it; and at the same time you see, that they are forward, nay eager and take pains with satisfaction, in the way of living, to imitate the beau monde, as far as it is in their power: that no sooner they are in possession of one preferment, but they are ready, and actually soliciting for another, more gainful and more reputable; and that on all emergencies, wealth, power, honour and superiority are the things they grasp at, and take delight in; when, I say, you see these things, this concurrence of evidences, is it any longer difficult to guess at, or rather is there room to doubt of the principles they act from, or the tendency of their labours?

Hor. I have little to say to priests, and do not look for virtue from that quarter.

Cleo. Yet you will find as much of it among divines, as you will among any other class of men; but every where less in reality, than there is in appearance. Nobody would be thought insincere, or to prevaricate; but there are few men, though they are so honest as to own what they would have, that will acquaint us with the true reason why they would have it: therefore the disagreement between the words and actions of men is at no time more conspicuous, than when we would learn from them their sentiments, concerning the real worth of things. Virtue, is without doubt, the most valuable treasure which man can be possessed of; it has every body’s good word; but where is the country in which it is heartily embraced, præmia si tollas? Money, on the other hand, is deservedly called the root of all evil: there has not been a moralist nor a satirist of note, that has not had a fling at it; yet what pains are taken, and what hazards are run to acquire it, under various pretences of designing to do good with it! As for my part, I verily believe, that as an accessary cause, it has done more mischief in the world than any one thing besides: yet it is impossible to name another, that is so absolutely necessary to the order, economy, and the very existence of the civil society; for as this is entirely built upon the variety of our wants, so the whole superstructure is made up of the reciprocal services which men do to each other. How to get these services performed by others, when we have occasion for them, is the grand and almost constant solicitude in life of every individual person. To expect that others should serve us for nothing, is unreasonable; therefore all commerce that men can have together, must be a continual bartering of one thing for another. The feller who transfers the property of a thing, has his own interest as much at heart as the buyer who purchases that property: and, if you want or like a thing, the owner of it, whatever stock or provision he may have of the same, or how greatly soever you may stand in need of it, will never part with it, but for a consideration which he likes better than he does the thing you want. Which way shall I persuade a man to serve me, when the service I can repay him in, is such as he does not want or care for? Nobody who is at peace, and has no contention with any of the society, will do any thing for a lawyer; and a physician can purchase nothing of a man, whose whole family is in perfect health. Money obviates and takes away all those difficulties, by being an acceptable reward for all the services men can do to one another.

Hor. But all men valuing themselves above their worth, every body will over-rate his labour. Would not this follow from your system?

Cleo. It certainly would, and does. But what is to be admired is, that the larger the numbers are in a society, the more extensive they have rendered the variety of their desires, and the more operose the gratification of them is become among them by custom; the less mischievous is the consequence of that evil, where they have the use of money: whereas, without it, the smaller the number was of a society, and the more strictly the members of it, in supplying their wants, would confine themselves to those only that were necessary for their subsistence, the more easy it would be for them to agree about the reciprocal services I spoke of. But to procure all the comforts of life, and what is called temporal happiness, in a large polite nation, would be every whit as practicable without speech, as it would be without money, or an equivalent to be used instead of it. Where this is not wanting, and due care is taken of it by the legislature, it will always be the standard, which the worth of every thing will be weighed by. There are great blessings that arise from necessity; and that every body is obliged to eat and drink, is the cement of civil society. Let men set what high value they please upon themselves, that labour which most people are capable of doing, will ever be the cheapest. Nothing can be dear of which there is great plenty, how beneficial soever it may be to man; and scarcity enhances the price of things much oftener than the usefulness of them. Hence it is evident why those arts and sciences will always be the most lucrative, that cannot be attained to, but in great length of time, by tedious study and close application; or else require a particular genius, not often to be met with. It is likewise evident, to whose lot, in all societies, the hard and dirty labour, which nobody would meddle with, if he could help it, will ever fall: but you have seen enough of this in the Fable of the Bees.

Hor. I have so, and one remarkable saying I have read there on this subject, which I shall never forget. “The poor,” says the author, “have nothing to stir them up to labour, but their wants, which it is wisdom to relieve, but folly to cure.”

Cleo. I believe the maxim to be just, and that it is not less calculated for the real advantage of the poor, than it appears to be for the benefit of the rich. For, among the labouring people, those will ever be the least wretched as to themselves, as well as most useful to the public, that being meanly born and bred, submit to the station they are in with cheerfulness; and contented, that their children should succeed them in the same low condition, inure them from their infancy to labour and submission, as well as the cheapest diet and apparel; when, on the contrary, that sort of them will always be the least serviceable to others, and themselves the most unhappy, who, dissatisfied with their labour, are always grumbling and repining at the meanness of their condition; and, under pretence of having a great regard for the welfare of their children, recommend the education of them to the charity of others; and you shall always find, that of this latter class of poor, the greatest part are idle sottish people, that, leading dissolute lives themselves, are neglectful to their families, and only want, as far as it is in their power, to shake off that burden of providing for their brats from their own shoulders.

Hor. I am no advocate for charity schools; yet I think it is barbarous, that the children of the labouring poor, should be for ever pinned down, they, and all their posterity, to that slavish condition; and that those who are meanly born, what parts or genius soever they might be of, should be hindered and debarred from raising themselves higher.

Cleo. So should I think it barbarous, if what you speak of was done any where, or proposed to be done. But there is no degree of men in Christendom that are pinned down, they and their posterity, to slavery for ever. Among the very lowest sort, there are fortunate men in every country; and we daily see persons, that without education, or friends, by their own industry and application, raise themselves from nothing to mediocrity, and sometimes above it, if once they come rightly to love money and take delight in saving it: and this happens more often to people of common and mean capacities, than it does to those of brighter parts. But there is a prodigious difference between debarring the children of the poor from ever rising higher in the world, and refusing to force education upon thousands of them promiscuously, when they should be more usefully employed. As some of the rich must come to be poor, so some of the poor will come to be rich in the common course of things. But that universal benevolence, that should every where industriously lift up the indigent labourer from his meanness, would not be less injurious to the whole kingdom than a tyrannical power, that should, without a cause, cast down the wealthy from their ease and affluence. Let us suppose, that the hard and dirty labour throughout the nation requires three millions of hands, and that every branch of it is performed by the children of the poor. Illiterate, and such as had little or no education themselves; it is evident, that if a tenth part of these children, by force and design, were to be exempt from the lowest drudgery, either there must be so much work left undone, as would demand three hundred thousand people; or the defect, occasioned by the numbers taken off, must be supplied by the children of others, that had been better bred.

Hor. So that what is done at first out of charity to some, may, at long run, prove to be cruelty to others.

Cleo. And will depend upon it. In the compound of all nations, the different degrees of men ought to bear a certain proportion to each other, as to numbers, in order to render the whole a well proportioned mixture. And as this due proportion is the result and natural consequence of the difference there is in the qualifications of men, and the vicissitudes that happen among them, so it is never better attained to, or preserved, than when nobody meddles with it. Hence we may learn, how the short-sighted wisdom of perhaps well-meaning people, may rob us of a felicity that would flow spontaneously from the nature of every large society, if none were to divert or interrupt the stream.

Hor. I do not care to enter into these abstruse matters; what have you further to say in praise of money?

Cleo. I have no design to speak either for or against it; but be it good or bad, the power and dominion of it are both of vast extent, and the influence of it upon mankind has never been stronger or more general in any empire, state, or kingdom, than in the most knowing and politest ages, when they were in their greatest grandeur and prosperity; and when arts and sciences were the most flourishing in them: Therefore, the invention of money seems to me to be a thing more skilfully adapted to the whole bent of our nature, than any other or human contrivance. There is no greater remedy against sloth or stubbornness; and with astonishment I have beheld the readiness and alacrity with which it often makes the proudest men pay homage to their inferiors: It purchases all services, and cancels all debts; nay, it does more, for when a person is employed in his occupation, and he who sets him to work, a good paymaster, how laborious, how difficult or irksome soever the service be, the obligation is always reckoned to lie upon him who performs it.

Hor. Do not you think, that many eminent men in the learned professions would dissent from you in this?

Cleo. I know very well, that none ought to do it, if ever they courted business, or hunted after employment.

Hor. All you have said is true among mercenary people; but upon noble minds that despise lucre, honour has far greater efficacy than money.

Cleo. The highest titles, and the most illustrious births, are no security against covetousness; and persons of the first quality, that are actually generous and munificent are often as greedy after gain, when it is worth their while, as the most sordid mechanics are for trifles: The year twenty has taught us, how difficult it is to find out those noble minds that despise lucre, when there is a prospect of getting vastly. Besides, nothing is more universally charming than money; it suits with every station, the high, the low, the wealthy, and the poor: whereas, honour has little influence on the mean, slaving people, and rarely affects any of the vulgar; but if it does, money will almost every where purchase honour; nay, riches of themselves are an honour to all those who know how to use them fashionably. Honour, on the contrary, wants riches for its support; without them it is a dead weight that oppresses its owner; and titles of honour, joined to a necessitous condition, are a greater burden together than the same degree of poverty is alone: for the higher a man’s quality is, the more considerable are his wants in life; but the more money he has, the better he is able to supply the greatest extravagancy of them. Lucre is the best restorative in the world, in a literal sense, and works upon the spirits mechanically; for it is not only a spur that excites men to labour, and makes them in love with it, but it likewise gives relief in weariness, and actually supports men in all fatigues and difficulties. A labourer of any sort, who is paid in proportion to his diligence, can do more work than another who is paid by the day or the week, and has standing wages.

Hor. Do not you think, then, that there are men in laborious offices, who, for a fixed salary, discharge their duties with diligence and assiduity?

Cleo. Yes, many; but there is no place or employment in which there are required or expected, that continual attendance and uncommon severity of application, that some men harass and punish themselves with by choice, when every fresh trouble meets with a new recompence; and you never saw men so entirely devote themselves to their calling, and pursue business with that eagerness, dispatch, and perseverance in any office of preferment, in which the yearly income is certain and unalterable, as they often do in those professions where the reward continually accompanies the labour, and the fee immediately either precedes the service they do to others, as it is with the lawyers, or follows it, as it is with the physicians. I am sure you have hinted at this in our first conversation yourself.

Hor. Here is the castle before us.

Cleo. Which I suppose you are not sorry for.

Hor. Indeed I am, and would have been glad to have heard you speak of kings and other sovereigns with the same candour, as well as freedom, with which you have treated prime ministers, and their envious adversaries. When I see a man entirely impartial, I shall always do him that justice, as to think, that if he is not in the right in what he says, at least he aims at truth. The more I examine your sentiments, by what I see in the world, the more I am obliged to come into them; and all this morning I have said nothing in opposition to you, but to be better informed, and to give you an opportunity to explain yourself more amply. I am your convert, and shall henceforth look upon the Fable of the Bees very differently from what I did; for though, in the Characteristics, the language and the diction are better, the system of man’s sociableness is more lovely and more plausible, and things are set off with more art and learning; yet in the other there is certainly more truth, and nature is more faithfully copied in it almost every where.

Cleo. I wish you would read them both once more, and, after that, I believe you will say that you never saw two authors who seem to have wrote with more different views. My friend, the author of the Fable, to engage and keep his readers in good humour, seems to be very merry, and to do something else, whilst he detects the corruption of our nature; and having shown man to himself in various lights, he points indirectly at the necessity, not only of revelation and believing, but likewise of the practice of Christianity manifestly to be seen in mens lives.

Hor. I have not observed that: Which way has he done it indirectly?

Cleo. By exposing, on the one hand, the vanity of the world, and the most polite enjoyments of it; and, on the other, the insufficiency of human reason and heathen virtue to procure real felicity: for I cannot see what other meaning a man could have by doing this in a Christian country, and among people that all pretend to seek after happiness.

Hor. And what say you of Lord Shaftsbury?

Cleo. First, I agree with you that he was a man of erudition, and a very polite writer; he has displayed a copious imagination, and a fine turn of thinking, in courtly language and nervous expressions: But, as on the one hand, it must be confessed, that his sentiments on liberty and humanity are noble and sublime, and that there is nothing trite or vulgar in the Characteristics; so, on the other, it cannot be denied, that the ideas he had formed of the goodness and excellency of our nature, were as romantic and chimerical as they are beautiful and amiable; that he laboured hard to unite two contraries that can never be reconciled together, innocence of manners, and worldly greatness; that to compass this end, he favoured deism, and, under pretence of lashing priestcraft and superstition, attacked the Bible itself; and, lastly, that by ridiculing many passages of Holy Writ, he seems to have endeavoured to sap the foundation of all revealed religion, with design of establishing Heathen virtue on the ruins of Christianity.

FINIS.